Tainted Mind, Poisoned Soul
by Satiah
Summary: It's Madara versus Madara. Hashirama can't help but root for the one made of a bit less evil; Tobirama can't wait to rid himself of both. Past Konoha/Modern World AU twist. -Complete-
1. Prologue

Summary: Overridden by modern advances, the former Way of the Ninja has left behind nothing more than myths and legends. Madara, a young man of this new age, has decided his life was simpler before he encountered a ghost from the past.

A/N: Just for background clarification - this story is an action story. There will be fights. There will be blood. There will be war and death and betrayal and foul language. But no romance. Please enjoy. :)

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Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

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His darkly silhouetted figure stood regally against that unnaturally clear, clear sky. It was a crisp morning, and frost crunched underneath my feet as I trudged up the path behind him. How he had the energy to move as quickly as he did in this freezing, early morning chill was beyond my comprehension, but Lo! There he was. By the time I had finally ascended the rise myself, it looked as if his statuesque form had frozen itself in the ancient halls of history. Together, we watched the sun's golden rays play across the city far beneath the place where we stood.

To us, it looked as if we stood above a swaying carpet of living _green_. Ants swaggered their way through the greenness, marching this way and that, setting off on daily travels. Smaller ants ran to and fro, and you could almost imagine yourself hearing the laughter in the still morning air. The city—our city—was slowly awakening. It was breathtakingly beautiful, although I hadn't much breath left to spare. My frozen lungs could only produce little white puffs which I watched for a time with slight distain.

The ants below us, of course, were people. And the carpet of green was the ever-present expanse of leafy foliage that people commonly call 'trees'. The underlying plant life was constantly trying to creep around our sprouting village, attempting to reclaim the land we had so recently taken for our own. It almost seemed fitting for our little Konohagakure to begin its life thusly, germinating from such a small seed, and after being given enough patience and water, sprouting into what was now teeming with life beneath us. All we had to do was continue to encourage it to grow, and maybe one day we would see it fully mature into a beautiful, sprawling blossom.

I knew he was proud. It was in the way he stood, silently watching the village come alive. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to—but I could read the pride in him as he watched the children run off to the newly-established academy. Pardon me, that was a bit redundant. _Everything_ in Konoha was newly-established. But you understand what I meant, I'm sure. Regardless, his eyes remained bright and clear, much like the air of the morning, minus the frost. I was relieved to see they weren't misting over. I hate it when he gets emotional.

We stood there quietly, he and I, watching the citizens of our little village scatter themselves around, applying their attentions to this task or that. Some were building, some were repairing, and some others were busily protecting, as he and I were doing, although I believe he kept the better watch. My frozen bones and teeth-chattering shivers kept my mind more on me than on any possibility of danger to our little fledgling village, although I'm sure he forgave me for my lapses in attention.

As the day wore on and the sun began to warm the air around me, I noticed a gradual change in his demeanor. A hardness to his disposition that wasn't there before. His body language told me he was tense, watchful. I had no idea why. There was no danger around for miles, as far as I could tell. But, then again, I hadn't been paying much attention to anything other than my own shivering for the past while.

Even when I switched the direction of my attention I failed to discover anything odd. The air didn't seem unnaturally still. Birds kept singing their little songs to one another, and the various other forms of wildlife in the more deeply wooded areas continued serenely going about their daily business. The deer weren't alarmed, the breeze was still blowing, the village was still happily buzzing with sound, and everything seemed to be going smoothly. I could perceive no threat, no disruption whatsoever in the peacefulness below our mountainous ridge of a lookout.

But he had become so _still_. So tense. His eyes were vigilant, watchful. He was not nervous, but he was on a heightened state of alertness that I couldn't understand. There was no cause for concern!

Suddenly, I felt it.

I felt the unnatural feeling that was hanging so thickly in the air. It tingled my senses, prickled my skin, and caused the hair on the back of my neck to rise. Something certainly was off—and it felt bad.

It smelled worse. Like death.

His concern became more apparent to me, now that I was "in the loop", so to speak. I could feel it too, and it almost seemed to make the ground beneath us rumble and shake with a deep, ancient power. The tremble seemed to come from the bowels of the earth itself, not from some silly little surface ripple like the movements of a natural earthquake. No, this was deeper. And worse. Much worse. Although I couldn't really say why. It just felt so wrong.

He, apparently—and I credit this difference with him being a Hokage and me a regular Nin—figured out precisely what was amiss seconds before I did. In the Ninja world of split-second decisions, this meant I was struggling with the comprehension factor for an eternity after he had already glimpsed the truth of the situation.

My eyes widened in horror when he wheeled around to face me. Understanding finally dawned, but I was too late. He had his gleaming kunai in hand, flipped for attack and secured by a firm grip. His arm had already begun sweeping itself out in a death trail aimed straight for my heart. I watched in horrified slow motion as his left arm grabbed my shoulder, gripping tightly, before he pulled me off balance; I stumbled toward him and his poised, deadly weapon. He moved me as if into the security of a friendly embrace, but instead of ending with a mutual display of trust and affection, I was forcibly pulled onto the cold, unforgiving metal of his blade. His right arm shoved the weapon farther, forcing it to travel mercilessly between my ribs, allowing the blade to search hungrily for my heart.

And then, just like that, the slow motion was over. Back in real time.

I dropped to my knees, clutching the hilt of that bloodthirsty weapon, but it was already too late. I couldn't pull it out—he knew I couldn't, it was in too deep—so I settled for gaping up at his pale face, surrounded by a halo of dark, streaming hair. The near-black curtain of silk obscured his features in shadows, blocking out the sun so that I couldn't read his expression. Mournful or merciless, I couldn't tell.

He knelt beside me and gently supported my shoulders with both of his warm, strong hands. Sorrow, then. He felt sorrow.

I struggled to breathe, but only managed to choke as blood welled up in my damaged lungs. I was going to drown in it. Somehow, I processed this knowledge without processing the hidden implications behind it. I was still in a state of shock and disbelief. How could—? Why did—?

Why _me_?

But I knew why. Dying, shuddering from tremors that mercilessly racked my fallen body, I knew why. He was crying now, sobbing as he pulled me closer to him, resting my head against his chest, letting me bleed over the both of us. His fingers gripped at the back of my vest, clinging to me even as I struggled to cling to my own life.

I could have killed him then, as an act of either retaliation or revenge. But I didn't.

He spoke to me. His words whispered, hitched by tears.

"I'm sorry…so…sorry," A sob. "But…it was you or Konoha."

And we both knew it, too. As truth.

That danger, that irrepressible rumble of arcane power which resonated from within the depths of the earth, the evil which had permeated and soured the crisp air of such a clear, bright morning—that was all me. My power. My evil, threatening against the tenuous edge of release.

And yes, I could feel the stirrings of rage within my breast. That white-hot searing of anger welled up, desperately clawing its snarling way to the surface. And I knew. I knew I would have destroyed all that we worked so hard for. Without a moment's hesitation, I _would_ have destroyed Konoha, and him, as well.

But he had struck first.

And thus, it was _I_ who was holding my torn and wounded body, _I_ who was spilling precious life-fluid from my veins, _I_ who was going to die here—_here_—on this _rock_ so high above that abomination of a city and it was all so obscene. The laughter from below mocked me. The children's sing-song voices grated in my mind, endlessly taunting. My anger flashed, pure and explosive, and I struck out without hesitation. Viciously.

And there it was. _He_ who was convulsing on the ground, _he_ who was darkening the soil in a rich cascade of scarlet and crimson, _he_ who was gasping for air, raggedly drawing in garbled noises instead of air, _he_ who was going to die first. Yes, _he_. Like hell _I_ was going to die here, die now.

His eyes rolled up and his body stilled. His slowing heart weakly pushed out the rest of his soul, along with the remaining rivers of bright blood available to it. I had showed him no mercy when my own weapon tore out his throat, severing his artery. Where was his Will of Fire now, I wondered. And how, exactly, did it compare to my own Will to Live? I chuckled darkly, but doing so only blinded me with the atrocious pain of a thousand knives and I was forced to once more remember my own mortal wound.

So, perhaps we would die together, here in this ending display of life's bitter irony. After all, it would be just like everything else we did. I chuckled again—winced again—and remembered how we had spent so many years together, fighting for our lives and for our futures. For so many years, that war had been all we knew. It was a constant cycle of battle by day, inebriation by night. That's how we lived, not knowing when, or if, tomorrow would come, so we lived life fully beside one another.

I touched his hand with mine, too weak to grasp it, but strong enough to place my fingers on his upturned palm. I closed my eyes as I remembered those years: the pain and the beauty, the friendship and trust.

From somewhere below me, I could still faintly hear Konoha happily continue on, ignorant of the darkened, blood-stained fate which would forever change the course of its pathetic, enduring future.


	2. Encountering Apparitions

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

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I awoke slowly, groggily, but with my heart pounding and goose bumps running relay races up and down the length of my arms. The strange awakening provided me with a seemingly contradictory phenomenon—what with my head feeling so sluggish and foggy while my body tensed itself, ready to react to _something_, _anything_, although I didn't exactly know what I was so paranoid about.

"Ugh…strange dream," I mumbled as I clumsily rolled out of bed. My cat snored lazily and made no other move to reply. Good thing I hadn't expected any.

My head felt dizzy and the room spun in wide circles around me, but my feet stuck solidly to the floor. I shuffled my way to the bathroom, led by conditioned routine alone, since my mind was too fuzzy to pull any control-switches designed to make me move. I sleepily glided through the motions of showering, dressing, eating, and leaving before I was even aware I had left the warm confines of my bedroom. I absently wondered if, in my mechanized state, I had managed to feed the cat before I left. I guessed I would find out later tonight; if my return found me sporting a newly clawed and shredded leg, then no, I hadn't.

The walk to work was pleasant, but, I'll admit, I hardly gave it any mind. I was too preoccupied with my inner thoughts, distracted by that strange dream. It had been awkward in its familiarity, as if the vividness of the dreamscape represented something more than a simple, fictional encounter created by my overactive imagination. I almost felt as if there was something hidden deep within me which had reacted physically to the dream: stirring, breathing, awakening. Something - some nagging thought - was scratching at the back of my consciousness, desperately seeking acknowledgement from a forgotten place right beneath the surface of my brain.

I finally reached my destination, waving absently at my co-workers. I shrugged off my coat, threw it at the back closet, shoved some things in my assigned locker, and ambled behind the front desk of the music shop where they pay me to deal with morons. Our store, if you were wondering, wasn't one of those classy instrument shops that sell trombones, cellos and guitars. Rather, it was the kind that displayed CDs and DVDs, their players, and other useless things made nearly obsolete by the Internet. We sell more movies than music these days, so I usually feel somewhat outdated when I purchase my own CDs...but I don't get an employee discount for buying tunes on the Net like everyone else.

Anyway, the day progressed slowly and my mind wandered back to attempting to construct plausible interpretations for my odd little dream. It had felt so familiar, and that was what kept me interested. Whoever the mysterious other guy was, I had no idea, but the fact that he had somehow seemed familiar made me extraordinarily curious. Of course I knew the dream meant nothing, they never do, but it kept my mind busy and out of trouble for the rest of the afternoon shift.

It wasn't until I was locking up the store that I really started to wonder.

Call it irony. Call me crazy. But I swear I saw him—the man from my dream. The one whom I had killed, who killed me, who had been standing proudly on some rock overlooking the awakening start of a small city in the bright chill of early morning—yeah, that guy. I stopped in my tracks. My hand was still grasping the set of keys, which were now dangling uselessly from the outer lock of the music shop, while I gawked at him from across the street. I must have looked pretty dumb.

Of course, that would have to be the moment where he chose to turn himself around and find me staring at him. However, while I looked bewildered and, well, _stupid_, he seemed extraordinarily calm and composed, almost as if he had expected to see a completely random stranger attached to a door by a set of dangling keys watching him. Like that was a normal occurrence or something.

Normal or not, his chocolate-brown eyes closed and he cheerfully smiled and waved, as if he actually knew who I was and we were long-time-no-see buddies. His long hair spilled over his shoulders, gradually disappearing into the deepening shadows behind him. He wore a simple overcoat, lengthy and tan, belted tightly shut at the waist to ward against the night's approaching chill.

By the time I dumbly managed to lift my unattached hand to return his wave, he had already disappeared. I rubbed at my eyes in utter disbelief. The stranger from my dream had been _real_. He had been standing there, right _there_. There was no way he could have spontaneously vanished! But he had.

I absently yanked my keys from the door and searched the streets again. I saw no trace of him. None.

I think I just gawked some more.


	3. Frosty Introductions

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

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That night my sleep was restless, filled with obscure and enigmatic dreams. I awoke countless times, frightened, nervous, and ready to either fight or flee. By time morning showed up I was sure my sympathetic nervous system would kick my ass for all of the false alarms, but I really could have cared less.

As you can clearly tell, I was a bit off-kilter that particular morning. Confused by the emotions which stirred within me because of a couple fragmentary, almost memory-like dreams, I passed through the day in a haunted sort of half-conscious state. I don't recall much more than that, although my boss did send me home early because I looked so bad.

Snuffles, my cat—oh, don't even go there. I didn't name him. The old lady at the shelter named him when he was a kitten—woke me later that night, the way cats so lovingly do when they're hungry and tired of waiting for their lazy owners to get out of bed and feed them.

Anyway, when I managed to drag my bedraggled, sleepless, and otherwise highly disheveled self to the kitchen, I noticed a severe change in the weather. It was snowing outside: large, fluffy clumps of flakes that seemed to fall from the sky like a downpour of cotton balls—except that they floated down better than cotton balls—but just about as big. This made me curious, because it was the middle of July; where I'm from, July is synonymous with Summer Heat. It was supposed to be a scorcher of a day, but there certainly was no sun in sight outside my kitchen window.

I turned the television to the weather channel to see if there was an explanation for this sudden, wacky change in temperature. As I chomped into a leftover tuna sandwich, I watched a baffled meteorologist hastily attempt to get himself out of the way of a dozen pictures of children playing in the snow. While the man sidled off-screen, some other guy from the background handed him a piece of paper.

I love live television broadcasts.

They cut to a commercial break.

After a few minutes of ads for various medications and sports products, the forthcoming meteorological explanation was so full of technical jargon that it made my head hurt. Apparently, some genius somewhere had figured out how a seventy-degree temperature swing in the negative direction happened in just a few _minutes_. Unfortunately, I don't think our weatherman understood it much himself. What he and I both got out of it, however, was the good news: the problem was isolated. It was happening in my city only. No other climatically awkward changes were occurring anywhere else in the nation. Lucky me.

The situation got even weirder when I glanced out the window after feeding the rest of my sandwich to Snuffles, Prince of the Obnoxiously Impatient.

I saw a half-obscured silhouette through the snow, standing at the end of my front lawn. I couldn't see his face through the snowfall, but his overcoat-shrouded shape was distinctly recognizable. The dead guy from my dream…the figure patiently waiting on my lawn…the man cheerfully waving at me from across the street…they were all the same guy. He was really starting to creep me out.

I couldn't help myself, though, as curiosity got the better of me. I hurriedly excavated a coat from the cavernous pit of my closet, threw it over my tank-top and shorts, and rushed towards the door. It wasn't until I was twisting the doorknob that I realized I had grabbed a knife from the kitchen. I carefully slid it into the largest pocket of my jacket and ran out the door.

The swirling snow was cold on my bare legs, and my slippered feet kicked up more from loose, growing drifts as I passed. Some ended up in my slippers, making me hiss in annoyance whenever my warm instep met puddles of freezing water. Large globs of the feathery white stuff splattered my face and got in my eyes, but onward I pressed, undaunted, until I had fought my way to the driveway's end.

The mystery man was still there, silent and waiting. The thick snowfall created a curtain of isolation around the two of us, making it seem as if we were the only human beings around for miles. The air was deafeningly quiet, oppressively so, and the strangeness of it all caused me to look around to see if anything in the vicinity was left alive. It unnerved me that I was unable to see through the blanket of falling white. I started to think meeting this stranger at the end of my front lawn alone might have been a bad idea.

He, on the other hand, looked the opposite of what I felt. His features were calm and relaxed, as if he was just a friendly neighbor who spoke with me every day from this very spot. His eyes were friendly, but somewhat guarded, and that made me feel uneasy. I felt inadequate under his gaze. He wasn't exactly scrutinizing, no, but he still had a look that was a far cry from being appraising. It probably didn't help that I looked ridiculous wearing shorts in twenty-degree weather.

I impatiently puffed out little cloudlets of air as I thrust my hands deep within the warm sanctuary of my pockets. His eyes really _were_ chocolaty-brown up close, I noticed. They almost seemed liquid, but deeper than melted chocolate. More like _molten_.

When I finally seemed ready to converse with him, he addressed me by name.

"Madara of Clan Uchiha, it is my greatest honor and pleasure to meet you."

Even more surprising than the question of how he knew my name was the softness of his voice. When I had been dreaming, he spoke to me in the language of dreams: his voice was impossible to describe there, but I undoubtedly knew it was his. The dream-voice, like most dream voices, failed to truthfully match up to the real one. This discrepancy was not what caught my attention, however. It was the fact that his words seemed to float from his lips and hang in the stillness of the air around us. It was almost as if the snowflakes parted to make way for his message. Perplexingly enough, his vocalizations sounded much too soft—too harmonious—to be real.

I think I gawked at him, for he smiled at me and laughed quietly. That brought my wandering mind back into the present.

I stumbled eloquently through my first hello: "Um…yeah. Who are you, exactly?"

He smiled and shook his head, as if to tell me it wasn't quite time yet. This irked me because it was _he_ who was standing on _my_ front lawn.

"So, what do you want?" I demanded. My legs were freezing, my house slippers were full of snow, and I was quite irritated at having to stand outside with a stalker who refused to tell me what he wanted.

Without a word, the stalker amusedly pointed to something over my shoulder. I turned around to look, wary of whatever he was doing now that my back was to him. I didn't see anything but the blurred, gray shape of my house. That and several growing piles of white on the ground.

I looked back at him, but he wasn't there; while I had been busy peering at the snow and my house, he had brushed past me without my noticing. He was currently making his unhurried way up the length of my driveway. I blinked in surprise and started after him. "Hey!" I called. "Hey! Just who the hell do you think you are?"

He ignored me and walked up the three porch steps leading to my front door. As he reached for the doorknob, I drew the kitchen knife out of my pocket. The tip caught on my jacket, and when I yanked it free, it ripped through the rest of the fabric. That ruined the dramatic effect of my threat and made me look more ridiculous than intimidating, but I was exasperated and refused to be humiliated.

I'm certain he heard the ripping of cloth from behind him, but he didn't even bother to turn his head. Instead, he turned the doorknob, swiftly opened the door, went through, and closed it behind him before I could even register he had opened it in the first place.

When it _did_ register, I bounded up the steps, wrenched open the door, and stormed angrily inside. I found him sitting on a chair in the living room, jacket off and folded behind him with my cat curled on his lap. Snuffles, for his part, was purring contentedly. I should have bought a dog.

I glared at the trespasser and stomped over, heedlessly ignoring the comfort of my treacherous cat. I grabbed the man's shirt with both fists and jerked him roughly towards my face. When I had him close enough for my liking, I spat out, "Just who the _hell_ do you think you are?"

The cat mewled in alarm and took off for the bedroom.

The man met my eyes with a serene, calm gaze. He didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he placed his hands around the outside of mine and effortlessly broke my grip on his shirt. To this day I don't know how he did that, but at the time I was too angry to even notice. He gently maneuvered me back a step so I was out of his face. Replying enigmatically, he said, "I am myself."

This enraged me further. It wasn't a new sensation; I've always been quick to anger. But this encounter left me seeing red as fury bubbled inside me. I struck out at him, intending to break his nose, but my arm encountered resistance much too soon for me to have hit him. Lightning quick, he had caught my arm with both hands at the elbow, forcing me to hop off-balance.

That made me angrier.

He switched our places in the blink of an eye, pulling my body around his in a tight circle. Unable to stay upright, I fell backwards onto the chair's cushion with a soft whump. He placed his hands on both arms of the chair and leaned forward to push me back even farther. Now it was his face in mine, but his eyes remained calm and clear, calculating my movements before I made them. This watchfulness forced me to sit still and pay attention.

Satisfied that I wouldn't try to hit him again, he pushed himself off my chair and took a seat on the couch. Then he smiled. "Sorry. I know I angered you, but you looked cold in the snow. I thought it best to get you inside."

I looked at him, unconvinced. If his voice sounded false to my ears in the still air outside the house, it was very, _very_ wrong inside. Something about him bothered me immensely, and the fact that I could do nothing about it did not ease my suspicions.

He gently released a breath which stirred some of the loose strands of hair around his face. "We can try this again, now that you are a little warmer. I believe you already know who I am, if you truly are Madara. Yes?" He raised an eyebrow to look at me questioningly.

I stared back.

"I will take that for a 'yes', then," he said as he settled back into the couch. "My name is Hashirama. I belong to Clan Senju."


	4. Sticky Truths and Ancient Problems

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

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I had never heard of the Senju Clan before, but the Stirring Something in the very back of my mind reacted to the sound of it. I felt anxious, as if I knew this name held some sort of hidden meaning, but the information I sought was lying just beyond my waking self's grasp. I couldn't even pinpoint a dream I had which mentioned names, so I settled for throwing another blank stare in his general direction.

He seemed unsure at this point, as if he had expected understanding to spontaneously affix itself to my features at the proclamation of his identity. Like it was a magic key designed to unlock my spell of ignorance. His puzzled expression didn't stay long; it was quickly replaced with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders. "I see that just about told you everything," he mused aloud, chuckling softly. "Well, I wonder where to start... I had believed you would know the story, but I guess that is not the case."

I frowned, not liking where this was going.

"I suppose I can begin with a tale from a few centuries ago, when Konoha was just a foundling village—"

"Konoha? I've never heard of this 'Konoha'," I interrupted. He gave me a curious look; I guess my lack of knowledge was, once again, unexpected.

"Konoha is known to you from your dreams," he explained slowly. "It was a place of beauty…of peace, tranquility, and hope."

"Sounds like a fairy tale," I scoffed.

"Perhaps it does," he agreed. "And perhaps it was, for a time. In any case, Konoha was founded by Uchiha Madara, my brother, and myself—"

"I wasn't born back then."

"No; no you were not. But a part of you was."

"I don't get this."

"You would if you would patiently listen."

"Fuck you."

He smiled at me again, gently, with a fleeting moment of amusement passing behind his eyes. Then he straightened in his seat and chuckled.

"What?" I demanded.

"Nothing, Madara," he waved away my inquiry before continuing. "As I was saying, Konoha was originally founded by two Clans: Uchiha and Senju. I suppose the details are irrelevant, so I will give you the brief version.

"Back in those days, I led the village with support of our Council of Two Clans. Things went remarkably well for the first few years, before one Clan roused itself to total betrayal of the other. With the continuity of the village disrupted, there was civil war. I was killed in battle, but not before cursing my successor. He, well…died a decade later."

"This is going to be the short version?" I interrupted.

"Yes."

I rolled my eyes, which, unfortunately, he took as a cue to continue.

"Centuries later, the curse began destroying itself. I was released from my prison—"

"I thought you said you had died."

"I had."

"Then how were you 'released'?" I asked. He waved his hand distractedly and ignored me, the bastard.

"I attempted to piece the curse together again. It failed to work. So, I have sought you out to restore it since I cannot."

"Why should I help you when you don't tell me anything?"

Brows furrowed, he looked at me quizzically. "What do you mean, I don't tell you anything? That _was_ the story."

"Yeah, but it didn't tell me anything."

"What is it you want to know?" he asked.

"For starters, I want to know who you are; who you really are. No bullshit."

He raised an eyebrow before replying. "I've told you. Senju Hashirama."

"No. Let me rephrase: _what_ are you?"

"Ah."

"'Ah?' What in hell does _that_ mean?" I was becoming angry again, hissing between my teeth, clenching my fists in frustration, desiring more than I desired anything else to just hit him choke him shake him until he submitted before my will, until he begged me told me broke before me—

—the smell of crisp outside air reached my nostrils; the cool, sweet breeze kissed my face. I was overlooking a village, panting for breath as a man smiled encouragingly before me. His body silhouetted by the sun, his face aglow with pride—

—and then I was back in the living room, no longer seething that boiling, red-hot rage. My fists were clenched, knuckles white and fingers numb, but I was on my feet and glaring down at him. He was looking back at me with a calm gaze, patiently waiting for my fit to pass. He had expected it to happen.

Confused, I sat down, breathing heavily. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my body trembled, but not because I was angry. I didn't know what was going on, nor why I felt as if my body was suddenly encasing a hollow void where my organs should have been.

"This is why you should help me, Madara," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whispering breeze. "You can stop this. These memories, this anger…they are not yours. You can rid yourself of them. You only have to reinstate the curse."

"If they're not mine, then whose are they?" I demanded.

"Uchiha Madara's."

"Don't play games with me. Whose are they?"

"I just told you."

"_What_—"

"My curse eternally bound the original Madara in death-sleep. He is neither alive, nor is he dead. He is unconscious, but he is aware. He is vulnerable to the outside, and especially vulnerable to you. He is strong enough to live, to awaken, and to destroy. You were created when my curse split through his mind. I could only curse what was already stained by darkness—the remnants of purity within Madara escaped, unable to withstand the power of my spell. No longer pure, it took the shape of a human. But, since it was still very much a part of Madara, it created you, a less evil version of himself."

"What are you trying to tell me? That I'm not even real?"

"Of course not."

"Then what are you trying to say?"

"You are yourself, Madara. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. What you once were was nothing more than the fading hope within a mass of evil; now you are a person. You are a freely living, breathing, autonomous being. You are quite clearly you."

"But what about—"

"The evil? Forget him. You are you. That is all."

I was still confused and more than a little unhappy about our discussion. Talking with this guy was getting me nowhere. Every time he said something, I could feel the doors of truth slamming themselves shut, barring me from the facts. But it was the facts I desperately wanted to know—and I would know them—even if I had to tie him to the back of my car and drag the truth out of him.

I think he sensed I was unhappy. Or maybe he saw the scowl on my face. Either way, he decided it was time to say something useful.

Or so I thought.

At that moment, Snuffles tore across the living room, fluffy tail held high and black limbs a-whir as he burst like lightning from my bedroom. "Snuffles, wha—" I started, but didn't finish. I was too busy gawking at the room the cat had run from. A large mass of black goo patiently slimed its way across my carpet, covering everything it touched with a sticky, tar-like substance. However strange the appearance, its horrible aroma better resembled rotting filth from a brackish swamp than the hot stench of tar.

I rose to my feet unsteadily, attempting to place the furniture between myself and the disgusting, quivering blob dragging its way toward me. I noticed I was shaking, and my legs partially gave way beneath me. In the process of recovering my jilted balance, I banged my knee on the corner of the coffee table. Cursing loudly, mostly out of nervousness, I scampered behind the chairs and sofa, backing myself towards the far wall of the living room. To my left was a door leading to the kitchen where I would be able to escape outside. Fingers trembling, I reached for the door handle…

"Wait."

I nearly died. For a moment, I thought the blob had spoken to me. But, no, the voice was too soft to have come from a menacing, expanding ball of tar-jelly. The sound had originated from the other person in the room.

My visitor had, up until about that moment, mostly ignored the pile of goo. He signed when he observed my panicked scrambling, rose to his feet, and patiently waited for the blob to fully enter the living room. When it did, it raised a slimy, dripping piece of itself into the air—almost as a crude imitation of a head—which it then wriggled around, sniffing me out. I stared at it with horrified revulsion.

Hashirama slowly reached up his left sleeve and drew forth a blank strip of paper. Calmly, and with delicate precision, he touched his right index finger to the paper and began drawing symbols I had never seen before. From his finger came clear lines of red ink—no, not ink—blood. I realized he was smearing the paper with streaks of his own blood. I felt sick.

Once finished, he flicked the paper into the air with his left hand. In front of his chest he held his right, pointing the first two fingers vertically. He muttered something under his breath which sounded much like "showy bastard", before saying something else I didn't quite catch. That last word caused the paper to ripple once and surge forward in a forceful explosion, bathing everything with a blindingly intense glow.

When I could see again, I found myself shaking violently against the wall, my left hand clenching the doorknob in a vice-like death-grip, Hashirama sitting on the couch as if nothing had ever happened, and all of my stuff clean and free of the monstrosity which had been oozing itself over my house moments before. It took me a few tries to find my voice, but when I managed to croak out a word, it sounded extremely high-pitched and foreign to my ears. "_What—_," I cleared my throat, attempting to speak again in a more natural tone, "What…was that?" My words were shaky, but I was more or less in the right vocal range this time.

He didn't answer quickly enough for me.

"_What _was_ that?_" I bellowed, trembling with rage and residual fear.

Hashirama remained as he was, with his back to me. Replying quietly—I had to strain to hear him—he said, "Just a little something sent to intimidate you. It always was a favorite trick of his."

"WHY?"

"The Ancient One, the original Madara, needs you to break the bindings of my curse. If you were to be frightened into running away from some conjured mess, like what you saw just now, you would have been his. You would have run straight into a trap set outside your house. It would have sprung while you were too busy focused on fleeing.

"Whatever is waiting for you outside, however, would have incapacitated, and probably injured, you before stealing you away to the cave Madara is currently occupying. Your life's essence would then have been ripped from your body, consumed and drained, leaving you with nothing more than the shell of an empty corpse to be controlled by his newly-awakened and quite malevolent will.

"At this point, you would have not only ceased to exist, but you would have allowed evil to reincarnate itself and once again walk the earth. Madara would proceed to cause whatever destruction, murder, chaos, and mayhem he wished before destroying me for cursing him in the first place.

"At that point, I would truly die, leaving the earth with no semblance of a barrier with which to contain or buffer Madara's wrath, ending in the annihilation of life as you know it before he managed to gain control of—"

"Got it," I growled. "The world would end. You could've just said that and saved me the lecture."

"You are mistaken; it would not have been the end of the world, but rather the end of civilization. I think he would have kept the world mostly intact for his own enjoyment."

"What. _Ever_," I spat, with as much venom as I could muster. I think he got the hint.

"Well, then, Madara. _That_ was the story. It is up to you whether or not you decide to aid me in this endeavor. Use your head wisely, and I shall return for your answer."

With a flourish of his hand and a tilt to his head in a gesture I assumed was a bow, Sunju Hashirama faded away into nothingness, leaving me completely and undeniably alone.


	5. Awakening Malevolence

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ... ... ...

A tumbling, chaotic trickle of thoughts began pounding behind my eyes, building up until it was streaming through my brain like a tremendous river, washing over and drowning my other senses in an oceanic roar of confusion. My ears thundering, my eyes unseeing, my breathing heavy, my body immobile, I sat. I sat there for a long time, not knowing who, where, or what I was.

When I awoke, I discovered the snow had stopped. More than that... it had melted away.

There were no puddles.

I found Snuffles hiding in the laundry basket. Sometimes I think my cat is smarter than I am. I wished I could be as small as he, to climb into the laundry, clothing myself with a comforting, blanketed shield. I would be safely hidden from the rest of the confusing world; it would be a much more preferable option than trying to save it from destruction in the face of evil incarnate, anyway.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. This wasn't like me. I am not the type to sit in the dark in the basement, pondering the world's enigmatic ways! I am the type to stand solidly and face them head-on!

With a triumphant, ear-splitting roar—my resounding battle cry—I hefted the laundry basket over my head and forcefully dumped its smelly contents into the washing machine with renewed vigor, whites with colors and all, while the cat fearfully leapt aside in terror. Snuffles hissed at me before retreating to his hidey-hole beneath the couch upstairs. I ignored him as I punched at the washer's buttons and cranked at the knobs to get the water flowing. I watched with eager anticipation as the pathetic garments deflated underneath the unstoppable onslaught of streaming, steaming water before I shut the lid with a satisfying _slam_. Renewed, relieved, and refreshed, I strode out of the laundry room to make myself a sandwich and some coffee for dinner.

It wasn't until later that I realized I had forgotten the detergent. Damn.

... ... ... ... ...

I was on my way to work one morning when he trapped me again, two remarkably quiet weeks later. It had been a blissful two weeks, I might add, with no phantom snow or big black blobs of death trying to eat at me, my house, or my cat.

"Have you made your decision?" he asked.

I grunted something along the lines of an affirmative answer.

He nodded his head, looking pleased. I saw in his amused chocolate-colored eyes that he had known all along I was going to give in. _This guy!_ He made me angry every time I saw him! I wanted to just punch him, if only to cave in his face so he could never grin at me again in his smug, self-satisfied way. My anger grew hot and ran like fire through my veins; I tightened my fist. How badly I wanted to hit him hit him hit him again again _again!_

He knew that, too.

He struck first; I didn't have the chance to hit him. He reached his arm forward, patted my cheek, smiled, and strolled through my body as if I wasn't even there. Baffled, I pivoted on my heel in time to see him walking nonchalantly down the street, hands in pockets, face turned upwards in the sun. Growling, I jogged toward him, catching up before he turned the corner.

"You," I said.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"What am I going to have to do to…defeat whatever?"

"Oh. Well, now. It's not difficult, Madara. All you need to do is assist me while I replace the seal, hopefully a bit more permanently this time."

"How are you going to do that?"

Hashirama stopped walking to watch a robin hop around someone's lawn, searching for tasty insects to eat. "I'll sacrifice myself again to make a permanent enchantment. It should destroy him. You have to help weaken him; it is impossible for him to be at his peak in his dark powers if his lighter half is alive and thriving in the same room."

"So, I just stand there?" I asked.

"No. You will have to be the one to end his life, but don't worry about that. We're quite far from doing anything just yet."

I sighed, feeling as if I had stumbled my way into Wonderland, or something equally insane, and met that world's version of the Mad Hatter.

... ... ... ... ...

The darkness stretched endlessly. Its penetrating chill had long-since seeped in and through his brittle bones, leaving his body as cold as the stone coffin upon which he rested. A soft breeze washed over him from the entrance of the cave where he could hear it whistle as it rushed in, eager to explore the entryway of his accursed home.

With a growl, his eyes flashed angrily. He would soon have strength enough to rise from his tomb. The world would once again fear his name and tremble before him. He would rule all; there would be nothing to stop his rise.

_Nothing._

All he needed was the missing boy. That pathetically false imitation of himself, formed by the treacherous weakness of his human soul. But he was human no longer, and would not—_could not—_be stopped. His most hated foe, Senju Hashirama, was long since dead; there were no other ninja with knowledge enough in the White Arts to stop Madara's fell incantations. It would be so simple to rise to his glorious might in this new day and age, where mindless dependence on science and technology had blinded the masses to true power. For who among them believed in magic anymore?

A humorless, dark chuckle resounded in his mind, shaking ancient bones as the remains of his exposed body struggled for release from the bindings of a long-forgotten Curse. He found no give in the bindings, not this time, but his patience would eventually win out. Patience had gotten him here: awakened, and quite far from dead.

Too bad the Curse wasn't so permanent after all, eh, Hashirama?


	6. Clairvoyance?

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ... ... ...

I woke up to Snuffles' wet nose against my ear. He batted at my hair, trying to get me to wake up. I rolled over and ignored him. He bit me.

"Ouch!"

Snuffles sat back and regarded me with a look of haughty distaste. I cradled my injured ear.

I glared at him. Irritation emanated from the both of us, seeping into the cold bedroom air as we clashed our stubborn wills in a silent battle. Regrettably, I gave in first, and I had to drag myself out of bed to feed his finicky feline face. He happily leapt from the bed, head raised in victory. He raced to the kitchen in front of me, and as he passed I felt the urge to kick him. Lucky for him I didn't.

The overhead kitchen lights temporarily blinded me, and I rubbed at my eyes to clear them. The cat mewed, demanding food, so I reached for the can of tuna I neglected to toss in the fridge last night. The whole house probably reeked of it by now, but I didn't pay any attention to the smell when I sliced my thumb on the rough edges of the half-opened can. I cursed.

Unfortunately for me, the kitchen wasn't as empty as I had been expecting. A not-so-very-warm hand gripped mine while I was angrily stomping about, and a bandage was placed over the wound. I hadn't even registered what was happening before Hashirama returned to sipping his mug of steaming, cream-laced coffee at the table. I knew for a fact I hadn't let him in here, and I certainly hadn't shared my coffee with him. Not _my_ coffee.

I sighed, running a tired hand across my face. "What do you want?"

Hashirama simply gestured to a plate of eggs, bacon, and buttered toast, motioning for me to sit. I eyed the food warily, but obediently sat down and dug in. Surprisingly, Hashirama was a fairly good cook. The salsa on the eggs tasted foreign, and it faintly reminded me of grass, but although it was strange it wasn't unpleasant. After devouring my surprise breakfast, I cradled my own cup of coffee, warming my cold fingers, and asked Hashirama my question again. He likes to make me repeat myself.

Hashirama told me to finish my coffee. I sipped at it slowly.

Once I finished savoring the last drops of that precious, life-giving beverage, I opened my mouth to say something not-so-very-nice to him for making me ask my question yet a _third_ time. Before anything came out, however, I found myself flying - flying through a vortex of colors and sensations, hot and cold and bright, falling and confused and sliding but not moving while still standing as I fell and fell and slid and suddenly I found myself outside, blinking in the powerful rays of the summer sun, the grass soft beneath my bare feet. Birds sang and the breeze whispered in my ear, but I had no idea where I was. It certainly wasn't my backyard. Venturing a curious look around, the only thing I saw was a gigantic rock sporting a carved image of somebody's head. It reminded me of Mount Rushmore, only much uglier and with only one face.

Hashirama told me it was his head up there, honoring him as the first Hokage.

Oh. Well, that explained why it was so artistically _appalling_.

He led me around the trees encircling our "landing spot", as I called it. Hashirama offered no explanation to the contrary, so I assumed we had been teleported there by his mystical, ghosty powers. I was not impressed by his sudden display of otherworldly abilities, but my eyes did widen in surprise when he led me to the crest of the ridge we had appeared on.

Beneath me was a sprawling village unlike anything I'd seen outside of my dreams. Colorful buildings of every shape and size grew outwards from a central building beneath the Ugly Face Rock. Hundreds of people leapt effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, clearing inhuman distances with ease; only the youngest children played in the streets. Dogs barked and howled; some of them even ran atop buildings beside their masters! I watched while a group of young girls giggled together, laughing at a boy attempting to blow bugs out of his nose. A blonde girl stepped out from the group, and with her arms raised, said something to make the bugs gather around her. By the time I blinked, the insects had disappeared. I had no idea what happened, but it was definitely creepy.

"This is Konoha, as I knew it," Hashirama explained, for once without my asking. "Those people are all Konoha Nin—Ninja of our Village Hidden in the Leaves."

I looked at all the dense foliage surrounding the place. It seemed an appropriate enough name.

"We," he continued, "are visiting an alternate time-space right now. You have been embedded into the fabric of my memories, in a world I once lived in, seeing as I once saw."

I contemplated his words, nodding as he gracefully swept his arm out, showing me what lay ahead. I responded as elegantly as I could. "_What_ did you just say to me?"

He smiled and turned in my direction. "You are seeing my memories, Madara."

"If it was that simple, why didn't you just say so?" I demanded. He didn't answer. I hate it when he does that.


	7. Feeling Boulder

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ... ... ...

We reached the central building, built of strong brick and wood. Painted white and red, it may have been a smaller structure, but it was topped with a strange, dark blue crown of bent, inward-curving _somethings_ that distinguished it as different. I thought the sculpture represented an expression of the locals' ideas of decoration, but to me it looked like the top of the building had exploded, leaving gigantic metal fingers to claw from the lower floors.

Hashirama climbed an outside set of stairs one at a time, but I watched as people literally _flew_ through a window above us. Upon exiting, they landed on the ground three stories below, bounded right off the soles of their feet, and leaped onto adjacent rooftops. These people were only visible for a split-second before they were on their way, reminding me of the little rubber balls I used to get from gumball machines when I was a kid.

At the top of the stairs was a curving hallway which ran the perimeter of the strange, circular building. We trekked along its ugly green carpet, passing unfinished walls of wet plaster. Men were still building the place, and I nearly tripped over a few as we cycled through the hallway. We eventually reached a heavy wooden door with a curious symbol etched into it, dark and bold. It looked something like a barbecuing skewer would if it was made to run through two sets of opposing, semicircular slices of bell pepper. I didn't really know what the etching was supposed to represent (other than a strangely barren shish-kebob), but Hashirama said it was the crest of the Senju Clan. I tilted my head sideways, thinking I might discover the outline of a tree if I squinted, but that thought didn't work out as well as I had planned.

The door led to a spacious office with only a desk placed at the far end. Most of the room's walls held large windows which looked out at the village, but I only noticed the view _after_ I had determined the floor was still covered with that same, ugly green carpet. A younger Hashirama looked up from his desk as we entered, but quickly resumed scribbling notes on a partially unfurled scroll as if he either didn't see us or very much neglected to care.

"Since these are my memories, the two of us are not really here. He cannot see us, and we cannot interact with him," Hashirama explained.

"So, how did he know we entered the room?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. "He looked right at us."

"I believe he was getting the hair out of his eyes."

I didn't have time to be unimpressed before the door splintered behind us and an angry man strode into the room, trailing footsteps of crackling, black-tongued fire. His body emanated power: power which flowed around him like a physical barrier, writhing and coiling serpentine-like around him. He wore heavy, burgundy armor plating over a strong, muscular body, yet he walked with such silent grace I thought he may have been floating. His hair was disheveled and long, black as night, but his eyes were alight with a blazing, murderously red fire.

He looked just like me.

"That is Uchiha Madara," Hashirama told me.

"_I'm_ Uchiha Madara," I reminded him.

He didn't comment, but rather watched as the Me-In-Armor slammed a fist on the desk in front of Younger Hashirama. Hashirama, in turn, ignored the forceful display and continued scribbling on his scroll. It seemed as if he had always liked making other people angry.

However, the Me-In-Armor-Madara _didn't_ get angrier. Instead, he laughed - low and deep in his chest. At that, Hashirama looked up, smiled, and politely set aside his work. He stood and clasped Madara's hand before offering him a seat and saying something that sounded like 'Well, I guess you didn't die'.

The older Hashirama turned to me. "That is all."

"Why? Nothing happened."

He didn't answer; he pulled me out of the room. "What was the point of that?" I asked, wanting to know why he had forced me to climb all of those awful stairs for a mere three minutes' worth of observation.

"So you could understand Madara. Now you have proof he existed, as well as a rough understanding of what his basic countenance is like. A feel for who he is, if you will."

I didn't get it, but neither did I really care, so I left it at that.

"I want to show you something else."

I was taken off-balance when the ground beneath me lurched. I felt as if I had been yanked sideways by a puppet master, one who was furiously pulling my body from scene to scene because he found that more entertaining than simply changing the _background_ and leaving me be.

When my stomach and various other internal organs dislodged themselves from an uncomfortable clump (which felt as if it were located several feet outside my chest), I could once again breathe and discover that I was in a very different place. _There are no trees,_ I realized as I regained my footing on the no-longer-grassy terrain. In fact, my bare feet were perched precariously on the top of a dusty boulder. I found myself staring out at a wasteland of rock: strewn boulders, jagged stones, looming mountains. As far as I could see, there was nothing but dirt and various shades of lumpy-brown; no life existed anywhere.

I blinked and tried to clear my eyes of the dust. Suddenly, hundreds of men—an entire _army_—stood before me, in a place inhabited only by rocks a moment before. I staggered back, lost my footing, and slipped backwards off the boulder; Hashirama caught me before I fell. He gently placed me upright again and simultaneously pointed off to his left. A small gathering of men crouched around a map etched in the soil. I instantly recognized two of the three as the younger Hashirama and the maroon-armor-wearing version of myself.

"Who's the third guy?" I asked.

"My brother. The future Second Hokage."

I looked at him, sizing him up from a distance. He didn't seem like much: dressed in blue, furry armor topped with a half-assed attempt of a helmet. He stood slightly askance from the rest of the group, as if he were afraid to get too close to the other members. Or perhaps he didn't trust them. Or maybe he didn't like their smell.

Hashirama and Madara, meanwhile, were animatedly discussing the diagram, pointing, erasing, and redrawing. Hashirama shook his head multiple times and Madara looked ready to punch him. But when they stood, the gaze exchanged between battle-hardened eyes was one conveying mutual agreement. Hashirama's brother looked about as happy as the scowling Madara did.

The three men went off in separate directions too quickly for me to see. Like streaks of lightning, they leapt towards three different contingents of men patiently awaiting this moment. After orders were dictated, more select individuals took off running before the masses began to move. I expected there to be a great rumbling beneath my feet when the army started forward; however, I hardly felt anything at all. Soundless, every man turned and followed his respective leader. The army emptied itself from the area as fast as they had come, once more leaving behind a deserted and desolate wasteland in the middle of Absolutely Nowhere.


	8. Oblivion

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ... ... ...

Hashirama stood on the battlefield, surrounded by hoards of warring, screaming men. Armor dulled by dust and blood cut into his skin when he twisted, narrowly avoiding his opponent's vicious thrusts. As it was, the enemy's weapon bit into Hashirama's flesh and he hissed in pain, dropping to one knee as his blood-soaked hands hit the uneven ground. Upon contact, black letters unfurled themselves from his palms and traveled along the ground in a frantic rush, disappearing as the earth began to quake and crack apart. A crevasse widened as it sped towards Hashirama's opponent, who, eyes wide with terror, turned promptly to flee. He didn't make it far before a great root lifted itself skyward and towered over the frightened warrior. The awakened root sped down to impale the man before dragging him, screaming, into the ground, seamlessly closing the soil behind it as it left.

Hashirama had already turned to face the next foe, battle spells ready to fly. His White Magic, the combined universal chakras of all living things, pulsed richly inside him as he relied more and more on the earth for support. His own chakra had diminished long ago, leaving him without the use of conventional jutsu, but as long as he had the White Art he would prevail.

Checking briefly out of his periphery to make sure his two generals were still alive and leading their men forward to the predetermined locations, he turned his attention to identifying the enemy leaders, intending to finish this battle at last. This was the first part of a highly successful strategy the three of them had used time and time again; it had already freed Konoha from Rock Country's suffocating grip. As Hashirama located and distracted the enemy, Tobirama sealed any and all escapes. Finally, Madara entered the fray and completely devastated the enemy forces with his overwhelming fires.

Spotting his quarry on the next rise, Hashirama brought the deep stirrings of power within him to the surface, intending to unleash searing agony upon his opponents. He stopped short in mid-cast. Something wasn't right.

As he looked around, Hashirama noticed two things: first, that the echoes of battle had largely quieted, and second, that his vision had suddenly gone dark. _Genjutsu_, he thought bitterly, willing his mind to break free of the magical entrapment. He couldn't. He heard laughter, rich and dark and low, boiling from the black void surrounding him, echoing, roiling, and impossible to place its origin. He could only wait.

Madara materialized in front of him, red eyes burning frothy gloom away from his handsome face. His posture spoke of confidence: powerful and deadly calm. Hashirama wasn't terribly surprised by this betrayal; Clan Uchiha's hatred of having a Senju as Hokage was no secret. He was surprised even less knowing that Madara himself had been lurking behind several near-flawlessly orchestrated uprisings throughout their hard-won Country of Fire, subjecting the people to a land of instability rather than infrastructure.

Objectively speaking, there was nothing Madara could do to overpower Hashirama. The White Art was able to dominate the Dark, even though Madara was the more powerful sorcerer. Even with the hated Dark power of the Mangekyou Sharingan, Madara would only come to a standstill against Hashirama's White Wall.

But, given the smirk gracing Madara's sinister face, it looked as if he had finally acquired a new power to counter such a spell. _The Fox_, Hashirama realized. _The incredible Darkness within it would only amplify his own. I cannot counter._

"What are you doing, my friend?" Hashirama asked, tiredly shifting his footing as he watched Madara with the sharp eyes of a hawk.

Madara chuckled darkly. "It appears as if you have found yourself in a somewhat hopeless situation, wouldn't you agree, _my_ _friend_?" he asked mockingly, not bothering to hide the malice in his voice.

"You know what I am asking of you, Uchiha."

"And you are smart enough to know that while I keep you imprisoned within this genjutsu, Konoha is left without a Hokage."

"And you intend to claim the thereby vacant throne?"

"Of course I do. After your unfortunate passing upon this very field of battle, that is."

Hashirama sighed; so far Madara had said nothing unexpected. However, the answer to his next question was the part he was dreading. "How do you intend to circumvent my brother?" he asked quietly.

"He's already dead."

"I do not believe you."

Madara, amused, shrugged. "Then that is your problem, and you can deny his presence in hell when you join him."

Hashirama chuckled, keeping his eyes on his fellow general. "I do not see him here, Madara; there is only you and me."

Madara smiled. He withdrew a blood-encrusted kunai from the pouch at his side. Flipping it into the air he replied, "You can make this easy, Senju. Publicly denounce your title and rename me Hokage. It'll keep you alive." He caught the kunai by the blade, flipped it over his fingers, and once more grasped the hilt. "Or," he continued, "you can choose to die here and I'll become Hokage anyway. It's truly your choice."

"You will still have to face my brother."

"He's still dead."

"And you are still lying."

Madara shrugged off the call to his bluff; it had only been used to unsettle Hashirama, anyway. Casually, Madara tossed his kunai into the air a second time. "We, and by that I mean you and I, have been through a lot together." He caught the blade again, flipped it, and threw it back into the air. "The two of us entered an agreement. We fought together, side by side, and drove Rock out of what has now become our homeland." Catch. Flip. Toss.

"Yes. All you speak is true."

Catch. Flip. Toss.

"Your point?"

Catch. Flip. Toss. Madara's red eyes turned cold. "Afterward, the two of us set to building Konoha, our capitol city. The clans made for themselves little homes and built a little school for their little children." Catch. Flip. Toss. "Everything was going well until they got together and decided to name a leader." Catch. Flip. Toss. "They chose _you_."

Catch.

"Don't you see?" Madara continued, "_Together_ we fought, _together_ we built, and _together_ we survived. Yet, somehow, only _you_ were trusted enough for the position."

Flip.

"You know your belligerence makes you unworthy of being Hokage. You do not know the meaning of peace, Madara. A ruler must not rule by war alone."

"Oh, but he _can_. Just not if his country is filled with weak-minded worms."

Throw.

Hashirama parried the streaking steel with one of his own, careful to keep his eyes calmly on Madara while he did so. "Konoha's people are not weak-minded," he said. "Resisting Rock Country in order to build a homeland of our own could not have been the work of worms."

"You forget the obvious, Hashirama. They want peace. Peaceful creatures are weak."

"And overly hostile ones are the first to die."

Madara had finally had enough. "Let's see, shall we?" he asked as he flung another kunai at Hashirama, this one trailing a paper bomb.

Hashirama bounded to the side, racing toward Madara with hands blurred from the speed of his seal-forming. He had finally broken Madara's genjutsu, placing both of them on equal footing in this battle. Taking a deep breath, Hashirama hit the ground rolling as a blazing heat seared above his head, igniting the area around the two combatants. As always, Madara's fire was uncontrolled, wild, and dangerously unpredictable.

Hashirama's summons brought forth the great root from its slumbering depths deep within the earth, and it rose to challenge Madara's flames. Madara attacked it with eager force, but such a massive, living root was impervious to the damage of his quick burst of fire; Madara was forced to switch tactics. Choosing instead to burn the entire field, Madara therefore forced Hashirama to choose between fighting or breaking his guard to save his men from murderous flames. Predictably, he chose the latter.

Madara's malevolent grin widened when he saw Hashirama drop his attack in order to whisk his men to safety. _It's all too easy_, Madara thought. _I should have been Hokage all along. _Raising one bloody arm in a sweeping gesture, he signed four quick symbols and unleashed swift death over the battlefield in roiling waves. Hashirama had no time to escape before his body was engulfed in a twisting inferno that ignited absolutely everything in its ravenous path.

Triumphant but battle-weary, Madara gasped for breath, watching the world spin upside-down as he realized his exhaustion. He sat down with a heavy sigh and surveyed the damage caused by his koton. _It's such a shame_, he thought. _You and I could have made such a team. If only our roles had been reversed, nothing could have stopped us._

He looked up at the clouds as a light rain began to fall. There were no noises other than those made by raindrops pattering on leaves. No birds, no war-cries, no dying screams or wounded groans; there was nothing to break the ringing silence.

Nothing.

Alarmed, Madara rose to his feet in haste, whipping out another pair of kunai, suddenly wary of the silence. _Hashirama had to put them somewhere,_ he thought._ All of those men…they couldn't have disappeared, and he didn't have strength enough to relocate them somewhere far. They're still here._

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet shuddered and collapsed. Madara was too focused on leaping away from the swirling mass of spiny, green roots beneath him to notice the day's other anomaly: the falling rain had condensed itself not into puddles, but into the shape of a man. A man who swiftly took out his own weapons, took aim, and threw with deadly precision at back of Madara's head.

A gruesome, wet sound splashed through the clearing as two kunai sliced into their shared mark. Tobirama stared in silent surprise as his liquid body was impaled, Madara's projectiles embedding themselves deeply, steam rising in hissing coils as the flame-heated metal met condensed rain. Unable to sustain the jutsu any longer, Tobirama let his water-clone disperse in a fountaining explosion. As the water hit the soil beneath it, it seeped deep into the ground, seeking escape from Madara's next koton, a fire which was hot enough to melt the rocks above the retreating raindrops. As it were, most of them evaporated away, forcing the real Tobirama to use the rain that had not yet fallen as ammunition against Madara's fearsome rage.

At that moment, Hashirama's second wood-clone raced across the field toward Madara, signing various jutsu on the run. Madara had expected it, of course, and made quick work of the doppelganger with a simple flick of his wrist, heating the clone from the inside until it cracked and splintered apart with a deafening roar, sending forth a black cloud of shrapnel throughout the clearing, each broken piece retreating in whistling haste. As intended, the deadly, splintering rain flushed both brothers from their hiding places, forcing them to face Madara head-on.

... ... ... ... ...

Three weary men faced each other as they struggled for breath. Despite being worn out from the battle, as well as from the other ones fiercely fought before this, each combatant was stubbornly determined not to lose. All three warred for the future of the fledgling Land of Fire; all three had built it up from nothing.

Tobirama was the only combatant with chakra remaining. Madara's Mangekyou was fading back into its lesser Sharingan form; and Hashirama's summoned, writhing roots were beginning to shrivel and burrow deeper into the earth, seeking to distance themselves from the struggle above ground.

Tobirama moved first. Running straight for Madara, he created a vast wall of water to surround half of the clearing, momentarily blocking Hashirama from the fight as it encircled the Uchiha. The wall wavered uncertainly for only a moment before its great weight pulled it toward earth in a crashing rush of momentous force, crushing everything beneath it into oblivion. Tobirama wasted no time wondering if his jutsu worked or not; instinct forced him to continue fighting. He pulled out two paper bomb-laden shuriken, and with all the strength he could muster, sent them spiraling into the heart of the still-crashing waves. Igniting instantly, the bombs flashed underneath the watery surface before exploding, sending a great upheaval of water to rain heavily back upon the smouldering battlefield.

Madara leaped at Tobirama from just outside the churning mass of water as the bombs exploded, sending both men flying into the surrounding trees. Madara recovered first and slammed Tobirama to the ground before trying to slice through his opponent's neck with another blade, but Tobirama's power matched Madara's own and forced the hungry weapon to bite deeply into a nearby tree trunk instead. Frustrated and angry, Madara punched down, snapping Tobirama's head back into the packed earth with an audible crack. He lay still and unconscious as Madara wrenched free his kunai from the base of the tree and readied it for its final plunge.

As his arms began their descent, a blinding flash of an enormity Madara had never before witnessed filled the earth in a sudden onslaught of white. The trees washed out. Tobirama washed out. and Madara's own body began to fade away in the overwhelming rush...


	9. Madness

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ... ... ...

It was called the White Wall, but in reality it wasn't much of a wall. The initial Surge of it acted more like a White Wave or a White Wash, but the force that accompanied the Surge was heavy enough to feel like a White _Weight_.

The White Wall burst forth in two parts: the Surge of Light and the Deafening. The moment Hashirama relinquished its ferocious power, the battlefield was submerged in a light so intense it blotted the surrounding world out of temporary existence. Human beings caught in the Surge saw only shadows of themselves, mere outlines in an otherwise blank void, seemingly left to float aimlessly in a silent stasis for all eternity. But this eternity _didn't_ last forever. The Deafening fast approached, hot on the heels of the Surge, a roar so intense it was known to cause the earth to shake and trees to fall as it passed, tearing through air and ground alike in a ruthless outward passage. The Deafening assaulted the mind as well as the ears, screaming through and past, sucking all energy out of its victims. It left them shaken, cold, and disoriented as they suddenly dropped onto the solid ground from which they were snatched by the Surge.

Many suffered madness, their minds permanently eaten away or dissolved by the raw power of the Wall. Others faced damage to their souls: the Darkness within them ripped out so savagely the wounds would never heal, turning them into little more than empty husks. The luckiest few suffered physically, trembling for days or weeks, left unable to stand or to move, eyes frozen wide open in fear before they collapsed. Some of them recovered. More did not.

It was in this state that Hashirama found his brother, quaking in fear, left unable to speak, oblivious to the world around him. Eyes unfocused and glazed over, Tobirama battled countless demons within him, leftover traces of the Wall trying to force his innermost Darkness into submission. Should the Wall's immeasurable power triumph, Tobirama would be purified of all Darkness. But, humans weren't meant to live in this way; only if he defeated the Wall with his own will, itself a manifestation of Dark desires as well as Whiter hopes and dreams, could he regain consciousness.

Hashirama gently kissed his brother before doubling over in wretched agony, his body shredded on the inside from the violent release of such concentrated magic. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth while he fought back the urge to be sick. He didn't have much time left before the power killed him. He had to find Madara.

Luckily, Madara wasn't far. Splayed on his back across the shattered remains of a fallen log, he was amazingly still alive, his breathing rapid and shallow. His eyes were wide and frantically searching the sky above him, even though nothing was there. _His mind_, Hashirama thought. _It's completely gone._ Sighing heavily, Hashirama choked on a cough, hot blood rising in the back of his throat. He impatiently spit it out and dragged his damaged body towards Madara's head so he could steady it and finish what he had started.

His hands were ice-cold as he placed them on either side of Madara's chalk-white face. Leaning over Madara, Hashirama's long, dark hair swept away from his face and surrounded them both, curtaining them from the light of the sun. The sudden shadow caused Madara's eyes to stop their haphazard wanderings, but he remained unfocusedly staring at nothing, mouth mumbling unintelligible words in a nonsensical fashion.

Hashirama closed his eyes and haltingly whispered the beginnings of the curse that would forever bind Madara's soul within the confines of a vast state of nothingness: left for all eternity as a being neither alive nor dead. Hot tears ran down Hashirama's face. Several landed gently on Madara's cheeks, causing him to blink, but his mind remained in shambles and he had not the wit left to wipe them away.

Devastated so suddenly by the White Wall, there had been no time to rely on the Kyuubi's powers as a shield. The Darkness within Madara had been instantaneously ripped from his soul, leaving only a small bit of purity behind. This bit Hashirama extracted with infinite care, intending to release it as harmless magic into the air, but the purity seemed to have ideas of its own. It forced itself away from Hashirama, briefly materializing into Madara's form, but it resembled something…softer. A gentler look appeared in those deep, crimson eyes; a more peaceful sense of contentment took the place of formerly murderous ambition. It was a side of Madara which hadn't been shown to Hashirama in nearly a decade, certainly not since their nearly constant warring with Rock Country had first begun.

Hashirama's tears fell in earnest as he recognized the gentle look in the ghostly Madara's eyes. It was a look he had thought he would never see again, something buried beneath years of Madara's jealousy and hatred for not ascending to the title of Hokage. But now, freed from the Darkness, the friendship shared between the two could be freely expressed, if not in words.

It lasted only a moment, but seemed like an eternity to Hashirama, gazing into eyes which held no malice. Only the pure emotions of love and trust. There was sorrow as well, but a soft smile assured Hashirama that this truly was the best course of action; Konoha would finally be safe. _He_ would finally be safe.

Madara's last wistful look said all that remained to be said before his ephemeral body faded gently into the breeze, disappearing forever, as if he never were.

_I forgive you._

But now it wasn't Konoha that Hashirama wanted so desperately to save. Torn between protecting his country and restoring the life of his precious friend, he wanted so desperately to reach out and repair the damage he had done to the once proud warrior lying broken beneath his hands. But it was already too late and he knew it. The disappearance of the Light in Madara meant that nothing else remained in his now-still form. Madara was gone.

Hashirama's body shuddered in sorrow as he prepared to finish his incantations. He spoke whispered words, hitched by tears. "I'm sorry…so…sorry." He paused as he sobbed, regretting having to do what he must. "But…it was you or Konoha."

And he knew it to be truth.

Suddenly, Madara's body convulsed, forcing itself to arch violently off the ground. Hashirama withdrew his hands in complete surprise, knowing that Madara should have already gone; there was no shred of soul left to animate his corpse!

A feral growl tore from Madara as his narrowed, murderous eyes focused on Hashirama's startled face. As Madara sustained his hateful red gaze, he twisted, writhed, and slowly rose to stand on all fours, snarling and dripping drool from distorted features. His breaths were loud and heavy and fast; his fingers clawed deep gouges into the earth beneath his trembling body. _The Fox!_ Hashirama panicked. _But how? The White Wall should have overwhelmed it, too! It was already weakened by Madara's seals!_

Then Hashirama figured it out. While Madara had been alive, the sheer force of his will, combined with his innermost powers of Darkness, kept the Kyuubi securely sealed. Without those two forces working together to hold the containment jutsu intact, the Fox was free to integrate itself into the empty shell of Madara's body. And with it's former host dead, the Fox could once again taste the long-awaited sweetness of delicious freedom. A freedom it was quite prepared to enjoy.

The Fox lunged for Hashirama's throat, screaming rage and agony as its still-forming claws deeply embedded themselves in Hashirama's plated armor. The armor splintered and cracked beneath the sudden force of the collision. Wasting no time, the Fox began tearing at it, biting and snarling and drooling his hatred while waves of malevolent, evil chakra pulsated from its contorting form; the chakra seared Hashirama each time it flowed through his struggling body.

He couldn't fight the Fox. He was too weak.

This was the end.

Hashirama shuddered and closed his eyes. The Fox reared back triumphantly, clutching and smashing the last remnants of Hashirama's protective armor in both hands. The Fox threw the offending remains away with tremendous force, letting them embed themselves in the surrounding trees and mountains of severely disturbed earth. Nothing separated them now. This was the Fox's final step before freedom.

Gleaming, razor-sharp claws flexed menacingly, preparing to plunge deep into the unprotected chest below. Rage-filled eyes smoldered in glorious victory as the Fox pounced. But, as it did so, Hashirama quietly finished the last of his incantations. The curse was complete.

The Fox's borrowed body halted in mid-strike. Great, massive chains erupted from both the heavens and the earth, bursting forth from clouds and dirt alike to wrap around the snarling, enraged Fox. Those heavy shackles wound themselves tightly around all four of the Fox's limbs, slithering like snakes, forcing the Fox to hang, suspended, dozens of feet off the ground. Earth and heavens both locked together in an eerie tug-of-war, each wrestling to claim the prize helplessly constrained in the middle.

With a sudden _snap!_, the otherworldly chains met their respective balances and locked into place. An echoing crack roiled over the land, and the Fox's struggling torso was impaled by lightning, seething-hot and electric. The bolt arched back to encircle the Fox's paralyzed body, wrapping itself around and around, intertwining with the dark chains beneath. Lightning crackled macabre humor as it, too, assumed hold of the Fox for all eternity.

With a final resounding scream of agony, the Fox-within-Madara's-body shuddered and hung limply, forced once more into absolute submission. However, this time it was locked in a void completely inescapable; there would never be a return.

With a great, final rush, the chains that bound Madara's body aloft descended into the bowels of the earth and disappeared from mortal sight, leaving behind no trace of either storm or man.

Hashirama collapsed on the cold, damp earth, gasping for air, choking on blood. Weakly, he tried to reach a trembling arm out toward his brother, but was so blinded by exhaustion he could no longer see where Tobirama sat, still as stone in his own petrified state, oblivious to the world. Hashirama sighed his frustration, unable to stop the tears from falling off his tired face.

It was there Tobirama found his beloved elder brother: resting in death's eternal sleep, with one battered arm outstretched not two feet away, and a gentle rain pattering on the leaves of their great Country of Fire.


	10. A Brother's Memory

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ... ... ...

As the memory of Hashirama's final battle faded from view, dissolving as quickly as a snowflake caught in a warm hand, Madara found himself floating weightlessly, securely wrapped in the gentle embrace of a silent, dark void. He and Hashirama were surrounded by a perfect darkness more disconcerting than oppressive. Madara shivered, but not from lack of warmth.

Hashirama gently glided through the darkness to appear at Madara's side. He smiled warmly. Taking Madara's hand, he floated them both toward a faintly flickering light that Madara hadn't noticed before. Its tiny, pinprick luminescence flashed sporadically, somehow hard to see, despite being the only source of light in the void. That was kind of creepy, too.

Hashirama, still grasping Madara's hand, poked at the light, easily passing his finger through it. It obediently expanded to envelop the rest of his hand, wrist, and forearm. With a brief look over his shoulder to see how Madara was faring, Hashirama once more pushed forward until the gentle light swallowed him entirely, dragging a befuddled Madara along with an almost magnetic-like pull.

After being swallowed by the miniature sun, Madara found himself once more blinking spotty blindness from his eyes, squinting as he rubbed away watering tears. He found himself standing on an expanse of green grass, surrounded by thousands of rustling leaves. The place smelled earthy. The sun was warm. The breeze was light. And the Ugly Face Rock in front of him was now sporting _two_ gigantic heads instead of one.

Madara blinked in surprise. "We're back in Konoha? I thought you, you know, died that last time."

"I did," Hashirama replied, with a bit of a gleam in his dark eyes.

"Then…what is all of this?" Madara asked, gesturing towards the sprawling village. "You weren't as dead as you looked?"

"Oh, I was. That was the end of my life's story."

"Then what is this bullshit?"

"My brother."

"What?"

"My brother. We are now standing in his memory; not mine."

"How the hell did that happen?"

Hashirama continued with another twinkle of amusement, "I told you previously, Madara, that while you are visiting my memories, you are technically existing within another time-space. Another kind of dimension, if you would rather think of it that way. You are physically embedded into this time-space, but, since your body is created of matter, and these memories are represented by shadow matter, you cannot interact with the past. You can only observe what once was."

"_Shadow matter?_ Does that even exist?"

"No," Hashirama admitted, "but it need not in order to be real."

"You just said it doesn't exist."

Hashirama smiled. "Perhaps this is going to be a little too technical for our purposes, but you are correct. Shadow matter only exists inside one's mind. It creates their memories, their emotions…things intangible, but nevertheless real."

"That still doesn't explain why we're seeing this stuff _post mortem_."

"I have already told you," Hashirama chuckled. "These are my brother's memories; not mine."

Madara sighed in frustration, but willed himself to ask nicely once more before making a fool of himself trying to punch a ghost in the face. "Then do you mind explaining how we casually happened to waltz our way into your brother's mind?"

"Not in his mind, per se, but rather in a time-space he created."

"And how did that—"

Hashirama quickly interrupted before Madara could continue with his biting sarcasm. "Think of it this way: time-space exists in another realm of continuity. All memories are woven into it. As long as you know your way around, you can sift through the shadow matter and find memories created by any person you know. However, in order to do that, one must have died within this realm in the first place, and then have the misfortune of finding himself trapped within it for a few hundred years, exploring since he has nothing better to do."

"So you're the only idiot crazy enough to be able to do this."

"Basically, yes."

"Because you died in here."

"Yes; the Wall fueled itself with the power of my soul, and that died in here when my body died on the outside."

"Well then," Madara said. "Now that you've agreed you're an idiot, what are we looking at?"

"The aftermath," Hashirama sighed as he turned to consider the village. "At this point in time, I have been dead for... about ten years, I think, and my brother has been appointed Military General in my place."

Madara was about to open his mouth to ask why in hell this was pertinent to saving the world when a ninja came rushing at them, flying along the uneven, root-infested ground at full speed, panic and blood spilling off him while he labored for breath. Without pause he leaped into the sky, seeming to hang momentarily, before crashing through the window of the Hokage's Mansion, landing in an untidy rain of shattered glass and puddled, twisted limbs.

Tobirama was immediately kneeling by the man's side, assisting him out of the glass while ordering a nearby ninja to fetch the medic team, pronto.

Madara wasn't entirely sure how he and Hashirama had managed to follow the wounded messenger, since the man had moved twenty times faster than Madara ever could, but once again Madara found himself standing on the ugliest green carpet he had ever seen, watching some centuries-old drama play out in front of him. At least the blood was interesting.

The man struggled for breath as a female medic worked feverishly to repair the damage the traveler had sustained along his journey. Tobirama looked on worriedly, prompting the man to speak only after the medic gave him a brief nod.

"What is it?" he asked, velvet voice soft, edged with concern.

"The...temple, Senju-sama..." the man drew a ragged breath and winced, grinding his teeth together before continuing. "At the edge...forest...it's ablaze..."

Tobirama's face darkened with anger. "Who did it?" he asked, but even Madara could see everyone present already knew the answer.

"U-Uchi...ha...Madara."

The room grew silent. The messenger's agonized breaths continued steadily as he drew whistling air into his lungs, but those sounds too faded and his trembling eyelids fluttered closed. His laboring body lay eerily still as Tobirama gazed out the windows to the east, clenched fists steady, jaw set, eyes furious. Madara stared at the youngest Senju brother, shifted his attention to the prone messenger, and thought he was dead. However, the medic seemed just a little _too_ unconcerned. She continued to force a greenish light from her cupped hands into his still body, face set in concentration, not worry. In fact, nobody in the room looked the least bit upset by the state of the man still oozing bright red blood onto the ghastly green carpet. The just seemed upset by what he had _said_.

"_Madara_," Tobirama hissed, anger clouding his face in a mask of near-rage.

"Senju-sama," came a sharp call from the opposite side of the room. A young but stern looking dark-haired woman decorated with red tribal paint upon her cheeks stepped forward. "Remember: do not lose your head."

The Military General's features softened slightly, and tiredly he slumped back into his chair. "I know, I know," he said wearily, "I cannot defeat myself before the battle even has a chance to begin."

"This is the man who defeated your brother."

"I know, Inuzuka-san. I know."

The woman sniffed and narrowed her sharp eyes. "No, I don't think you do, Senju-sama. Your brother was your better, and gave his life to a technique that only managed to seal the Great Fox. You cannot defeat the real Uchiha Madara!"

At this, Madara turned to look at Hashirama. "What? You killed him. I saw it."

"Yes," Hashirama answered hesitantly. "And yet, I did not."

"That makes no sense. He died, and the ugly Fox-beast thing came out, right? Then you cursed it?"

Again, Hashirama's answer was a hesitant affirmation.

Madara was about to get angry when Tobirama interrupted his thoughts and answered his questions before he could ask them.

"Inuzuka-san, my brother gave his life to _weaken_ Madara," he began, unfocused eyes gazing sadly at the wall behind the painted-cheek woman. "He knew he wasn't fighting the real Madara...they knew each other so well, after all. I don't know if he was trying to seal the Fox all along or if he thought he could cripple Madara with the Curse...but I do know this: he wanted me to finish the job."

"He couldn't have known you would survive the White Wall."

"He took a gamble."

"That would have been entirely too reckless."

"He was," Tobirama replied, sitting straighter in his chair. "But, reckless or not, he knew it would take both of us to defeat him. That's why he had me do a little research on the side, when we weren't campaigning. I raided Rock Country's hidden libraries when we first broke away, remember? I wasn't stealing random secrets; there was something in there Hashirama needed me to learn." His strong voice faded to a whisper.

"And did you?" the woman growled, baring slightly pointed fangs.

Tobirama hesitated a moment before answering. When he did, his voice was no longer velvet-whisper soft, but rather fire-hardened with unshakably iron resolve.

_ "Yes."_


	11. The Embers of Revenge

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

Despite his decrepit outward appearance, Uchiha Madara had never felt so _alive_. Even so, his body was a wretched thing: flesh sagged from twisted bones, shoulders hunched and hands twitched, eyes stared wild and wide, face burned into a permanent sneer. But, this was better than the charred, mutilated remains he had been only hours before. Even as he stood there, backlit by a raging temple fire, his body healed itself, drinking deeply from the life essences he had so abruptly ripped out of the day's most unfortunate monks and prayerful visitors.

_It's such a shame_, Uchiha Madara thought to himself, _to waste so much precious blood and life without Hashirama even present to suffer along with them._ He chuckled darkly as he thought of the dead First Hokage: once the greatest Ninja to ever live, now nothing more than a rotting corpse buried beneath the land he once swore so vehemently to protect. _What did that title ever give you, Hashirama? Eternal life? Youth? Unsurpassed power? Hah!_ he spat venom at Hashirama's memory. _No, it gained you none of that. It presented you with an early grave, that's what. A choice piece of property with a magnificent headstone to commemorate your noble death_. He sneered, rolling the word "noble" around his mind like a bad-tasting memory, feeling its grit against the back of his teeth.

Nothing could stand in his way now. Hashirama had been the first and last obstacle to overcome, and it had been Hashirama's own foolishness that landed him in the rotting world of death. Uchiha Madara could only assume Tobirama had followed in his beloved brother's footsteps - trying his best to protect Konoha - but there would be no challenge in ousting the youngest Senju...not when the Uchiha Clan's remarkable talents flowed so thickly through Madara's own strengthening veins and, next to _that_, Tobirama was lackluster at best.

With a satisfied smile aimed towards the swiftly burning structure, as well as several charred bodies scattered thereabout, Madara absently waved his hand, airily making a motion associated with dusting stray crumbs off a clean tablecloth. Madara tilted his still-recovering, skull-like head back as far as his shattered, disfigured vertebra would allow and let loose a dark, resounding laughter which only seemed to encourage the blaze behind him to continue devouring the world to its fiery heart's content.

... ... ...

Konoha was a disaster.

Ten years ago, when word had finally returned - via ANBU's Black Ops - that the Hokage, mighty Senju Hashirama, was dead, there had been panic. It was immediately decided that Tobirama should ascend to the position of Hokage in his fallen brother's place, thereby restoring order to the leaderless nation. However, all hopes placed on the younger Senju's abilities to keep chaos at bay were dashed when his shivering, vacant-eyed form was brought before the Council of Two Clans with not enough wits left in him to speak, let alone _lead_ the fledgling country in its struggle to grow.

His recovery would prove to be long and painful, even with the aid of the most advanced medical ninjutsu available. But, then again, the cankerous malady afflicting Tobirama was hidden deep within the confines of his soul, not within the soft tissues of his body. As he slowly healed, his fleetingly transient bouts of lucidity grew longer and became more dependable, but the fragile balance existing between sanity and madness was not one the Council was feeling lucky enough to push.

The next best option was to replace Tobirama with the capable, if wrathful, Uchiha Madara. But he had gone missing some time ago.

After three desperate months, ANBU's investigative efforts were finally able to positively link Madara and the location where the body of the fallen First Hokage had been recovered. All hell broke loose at the implications of the Uchiha's treachery. The already strained relations between the two halves of the Council finally ripped themselves apart in a sudden, violent upheaval. Clan Uchiha wasted little time declaring war upon Clan Senju, hiding behind the pretense of a need to avenge Madara's murder. Clan Senju eagerly reciprocated in hostility, and a civil war shattered the Country of Fire, effectively tearing Konoha in two.

Clan Uchiha quickly acquired several military strongholds and declared its own sovereignty a mere thirty miles to the north of Konoha, in a little complex of towns named Adauchi [1]. Adauchi's chosen ruler was appointed to the newly-formed position of Supreme War Leader, and he quickly set up an elite Guard to act as Uchiha's standing army. To the Senju, the move was distasteful, immature, and utterly ridiculous. To the Uchiha, however, it was a decisive victory that had taken too long to achieve, and the taste of this resonating success was too sweet on the tongue to leave them satisfied for long.

As for Konoha itself, the ravaged capitol remained securely under Senju control. Leader after leader picked up the position of Military General, but none could hold it for long. The battles were too intense; the Senju were too few.

Konoha was losing ground.

Three terribly long, blood-soaked years later, when the skies were thick with dark, burning ash and thunder, the Uchiha Guard broke through Konoha's final defenses. In a last, desperate clash for control of the city, the Senju released their final reserves and battled the Uchiha until hope seemed lost. It was then, with the thundering, invading army ravaging the city below and a storm laying waste to the skies above, that Tobirama finally awoke from the soul-clutching depths of his Curse, bellowing rage and wounded hatred as he stepped forward onto the battlefield. At his command, the wrathful skies ripped themselves apart, tearing back in long strips to release a bludgeoning deluge upon the razed city's remains.

The onslaught was akin to genocide.

After the retreat of the Uchiha Guard, or what was left of it, the two decimated armies mutually agreed to reach a truce. The Uchiha insisted vehemently upon retaining their sovereignty, and the Senju were desperate for an end to the war. A treaty was therefore made between the new countries of Leaf and Fire: Leaf belonging to Clan Senju, Fire to Clan Uchiha. For five hundred and forty-eight days - approximately a year and a half - peace was honored between the two nations. But on the dawn of the five hundred and forty-ninth day, Fire once again betrayed Leaf. This time the tactic, in a deliberate avoidance of all-out war, relied heavily upon the traditional Ninja art of assassination.

That was when Tobirama finally accepted the position of Military General for the Senju-founded Leaf Country. He was regarded as Konoha's next Hokage, although he never once claimed the title as his own, firmly believing the position rightfully rested with his brother beneath the soil of their beloved homeland. Even so, after a successful first campaign against the Country of Fire, Tobirama's face was commemoratively carved into the mountain behind the city and hope was returned to the citizens of the failing Leaf.

In all, war passed between the countries of Leaf and Fire for five and a half years after the breaking of the Treaty of Two Lands. It had been a full ten years since the death of the first and only Hokage.

Now, however, as Tobirama raises his head and takes in the sight of the carnage and burning devastation wrought by the supposedly dead Uchiha Madara on one of Leaf's outer temples, his hatred rushes back in full force, and he resolves with boiling anger to end this battle, once and for all.

For the Leaf.

For Konoha.

For Hashirama.

... ... ...

[1] "Vengeance" or "revenge".


	12. Bloody Murder

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

Angry lips tightened into a white line as Tobirama's reddish-brown eyes darkened to narrow slits. He was furious. Furious at Madara for orchestrating this terrible devastation without provocation, furious at his own apparent inability to protect his people, furious at having been taken for a fool. Tobirama had counted thirty-eight dead in or around the temple complex: priests, monks, visitors, civilians, women, children, Ninja... Madara had been rather indiscriminate in his blood-bathed spree. There were no survivors; not even the temple hounds or messenger birds escaped.

A soft shuffling brought Tobirama's keen senses into focused overdrive. Something was waiting behind the smoldering remains of the temple. The structure was still fighting to ignite, defeated flames struggling on despite the thorough dousing Tobirama had given them upon his arrival. He called up a heavy mist to further sodden the debris.

Tensed and at the ready, Tobirama used the mist's cover and quietly flitted up a tree, flickering from branch to branch before sinking himself into thousands of beaded dew drops atop the leaves of a nearby sycamore. There he waited, alert and ready for battle should Madara appear to taunt him.

What Tobirama saw was not Madara. A quivering, gelatinous mass of what appeared to be tar oozed along the ground, trailing smoke from the remains of its own burning flesh. Its stench was terrible; its agonized death-screams were worse. Tobirama quickly reverted to his solid form so the screeches wouldn't tear holes though his mind, but the noise was still alarmingly effective at scrambling his thoughts. He steeled himself and attempted to inspect the burning thing from a distance, but soon realized there was a lot more of it than he had initially anticipated. As he looked through the deep shadows of dying twilight, Tobirama recognized bits and pieces of the thing scattered every which way: baked atop rocks, slithering off branches with dead _whumps_, sticking to leaves located higher in the trees than he was. The thing had apparently _exploded_ in the intense heat.

Tobirama traced the path of the one remaining live piece, stiffening in horrified realization.

It was a trap.

The tar-creature was dragging itself slowly across the ground towards a much larger, fire-blackened carcass. Tobirama recognized the jutsu instantly: it had once been a favorite of Madara's because it instilled terror and revulsion into his victims before leading them to inevitable slaughter. Madara would place this contorted monstrosity within the compound he wished to evacuate...the terrified people would come rushing out...and he would burn them to death as they exited, too afraid of the grotesque creature behind them to think danger could be waiting in front. If Madara timed it just right (and he always did), his victims would burn slowly, left alive just long enough to feed the steadily advancing blob. But the worst part was that the creature was the result of a forbidden jutsu. It was a soul extractor. As the thing fed, it would greedily rip the souls from the writhing, burning bodies of its prey, leaving behind a string of empty carcasses. The souls were then converted into chakra within the creature's body: chakra which Madara, as the blood-contracted summoner, could readily access and manipulate.

Apparently, Madara had spent the previous ten years slowly recovering from his crippling battle with Hashirama, but his powers alone weren't enough to sustain him. He had needed something more...

Tobirama slumped against the tree as he realized the significance of his conjecture. Even without the help of the Kyuubi, Madara still had several tricks stashed up his unholy, wretched sleeves. The power drained from this one incident would be more than enough to revive Madara in full, previously crippled from the White Wall or not. Tobirama couldn't be sure how much of Madara's fractured _mind_ could be mended by the soul extractor, but he knew the technique would certainly restore Madara's chakra-based power to its former levels.

Tobirama groaned and massaged the bridge of his nose, feeling a rather nasty migraine clawing its way to the surface. If _he_ was still feeling residual effects from the Wall, it was logical to deduce that Madara was, as well. However, Tobirama didn't know everything about the Wall...hell, he hardly knew anything more than Madara did, himself! That White Art technique had been Hashirama's to explore, and he only mentioned it to his brother once in an offhanded conversation. _Come to think of it,_ Tobirama realized suddenly, _Madara hadn't been around for that one. Hashirama was trying to pique my interest so I'd ask questions about it._ He groaned inwardly. _Hindsight is twenty-twenty... too bad I didn't pay attention back then, when he was still alive to tell me all about it. Now it's too late to get the easy answers._

Sighing, Tobirama lifted himself from his seat against the tree and condensed his chakra into several thousand icy spears, nonchalantly sending them though the smoldering carcasses of the blobs before him, ensuring each and every part of the repulsive creature was dead. Once he had done that, he turned on his heel and raced towards Konoha, knowing for certain this trick of Madara's wasn't a threat, but rather a diversion: Konoha was sitting unguarded while Tobirama wasted time killing a creature that was going to die anyway, being of no more use to its master. Cursing himself for dallying, Tobirama misted into the trees, hoping he could reach his unprepared capitol in time.

... ... ...

Konoha was in a shambles by the time Tobirama arrived. Women and children screamed in the streets as a plague of Uchiha Guardsmen swarmed through the village, destroying everything like locusts upon crop: burning, looting, killing, maiming, terrorizing. The sky overhead had become black as night, with dark, thick clouds of anger boiling forth from the horizon, spreading over the land like an infectious disease. Not even lightning lit the seething sky; the darkness was only broken by the raging fires of the helpless city below.

Not only had the elite Uchiha Guard subjugated the village into submission, but Tobirama'a horrified eyes also spotted several fully armored bodies of the last remaining Senju Heads of Council, all of whom were dangling lifelessly from fire-blackened limbs of the Great Tree overarching the First Hokage's grave. The magnitude of the desecration was appalling, and revulsion rolled over Tobirama's rage-trembling body like tumultuous waves of a violently storm-swept sea.

Madara, meanwhile, had forced his way into the Hokage Mansion, triumphantly declaring himself the rightful successor of Hashirama's formerly beautiful lands. The Uchiha invasion proceeded entirely as Madara had planned; largely unresisted, the Guard's destructive swiftness came as too unexpected a surprise for the Konohan city to raise its internal defenses and fight back. After all, most of those living in the capitol were civilians: not Ninja; certainly not warriors.

Madara's reign had been birthed in chaos, awakened to reality in a shower of bloodshed and misery. He had murdered the Uchiha's own War Leader along the way, assumed ultimate command of Adauchi as a result, and mercilessly set forth to conquer Konoha, where he forcefully assumed the tile of Second Hokage. After his self-proclaimed ascension, he ordered the carvings upon the gigantic monument behind the Hokage Mansion to be obliterated, featuring instead his face alone. Konoha would tremble before him; the world would quake beneath the might of his hatred and the unquenchable thirst of his revenge.

Madara laughed a deep, malicious laughter: victoriously triumphant, yet tinged with sickened distaste. Nothing could stop him now. He had conquered his enemies. He had united the two bloodily severed halves of Hashirama's whole. There was no clan, no warrior, no individual left who could stand against his power, his cunning, his ruthlessness. He had won this great victory, and there was no one left with the might or gall to challenge his throne.

Not even the Senju.

... ... ...

_Unquestionably Senju. _Tobirama thought angrily as he scoured the grim carnage wrecked upon the battlefield that had once been his city, fruitlessly searching for any remaining survivors of his clan. He stopped for a moment to sorrowfully stare at the Great Tree, nooses now hanging empty, bodies respectfully, if hastily, laid beneath the tree's massive limbs for burial whenever this nightmare ceased and Tobirama could find the time to do so.

_There is no doubt. It must be a Senju. _Mind and body weary, Tobirama tensed, alert. He quickly turned himself into a smattering of dewdrops upon the trampled grass beneath the Great Tree and waited while several Guards walked around the village's still-smoking perimeter. The men drunkenly celebrated their undeniably successful raid and subsequent overthrow of Konoha with loud songs and filthy manners. When the inebriated Guardsmen staggered out of sight, Tobirama regrouped himself and set about a new task with burning rage boiling beneath the surface of his mourning.

_You will fall, Madara. I'm the last one left. I'll bring you down if it's the last thing I do._

He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow.

_Two more graves to go._


	13. Tactics

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

"This isn't going to be easy, Tobirama."

She had dropped the honorifics, he noticed.

"I don't think you can do it."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence. I shall take it to heart and wear it as armor in my upcoming battle."

She ignored his sarcasm. "It's going to be nearly impossible to beat him," she continued. "I don't know if it's even plausible to believe you can do it; that might be nothing more than optimistic foolishness."

"Yes, I know."

A sigh. "If you know, then-"

"I have to. You know why."

"I do. I really do."

She sighed again. He noticed she did that often when she was trying to talk to him, but her exasperation with him mattered little; there were bigger things weighing on his mind.

"Inuzuka-san?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Why didn't you leave?"

She paused, turning to look him in the eye. "You know why," she said.

"Yes," he admitted. "I do." And to himself he thought, _I really do._

... ... ...

There were very few things Tobirama knew about the White Wall; most of his "knowledge" was conjecture. His brother had been the only person to perfect the technique; the only person ambitious enough to attempt to master it; the only person strong enough to actually execute it in the midst of battle. Tobirama, on the other hand, had been lucky to survive it. He didn't have the right chakra base to even attempt such an overwhelmingly White jutsu, much less have a hope of understanding it and its innermost complexity; his own chakras were too mixed for mastery over any one high-level White Art. But, if he knew Hashirama (and he daresay he did; he grew up with the man, after all), there would be clues enough to piece together the gist of the situation and figure out how best to permanently end Madara. The tricky part would be finding the hints. The impossible part would be the actual execution of the pre-planned final performance.

With Konoha firmly under the control of the Uchiha Guard and Madara ruling as Hokage, it was difficult for Tobirama to cause any lasting damage against the invading army. He had been forced to quietly slip away, secretly rendezvousing with the remainder of Konoha's forces at a meeting point hidden well outside the razed city's fallen walls. There weren't many Konoha Nin left, and, further compounding Tobirama's disheartened melancholy, no Senju: he truly was the last one. It seemed it was his turn to sigh.

"So, what do we know?"

Her words took him by surprise. "You're already aware of the situation, Inuzuka-san."

"Yes," she said slowly, barely revealing her hidden smile. "But perhaps hearing yourself speak is the best way to help you organize yourself. It seems as if our leader needs to be assured of his role in this mess before we can be assigned ours."

He grimaced. She was right. Tobirama paced along the wall of the hidden room, gathering his thoughts to himself before he dared voice them, taking his time to sort out the situation. "Where should I start?" he asked himself, quietly muttering under his breath so as to not disturb the others. He needn't have bothered; everyone present was a ninja; every eye and ear was already trained on him, their leader.

His advisor crossed her arms and placed them atop the back of a chair so she could lean her weight upon it (he knew she was on too high alert to sit down) while she considered him for a moment. "Start with Uchiha Madara," she suggested.

"He's crazy." Tobirama's weary statement was met by a mix of mirthless chuckles, grim nods, averted eyes, and wan smiles. He almost wanted to laugh, but was afraid it would come out distorted and dry, much like he felt on the inside.

"We know that," she said.

"I don't think you understand the depth of his insanity," he answered.

"Madara's a murdering madman, a sick bastard!" a young Hyuuga spoke up, tired of inaction against the enemy. His cry was met with various cheers of agreement from the younger survivors.

Tobirama managed a small smile. "Yes, he is that, but I mean there is something deeper, something stronger, _compounding_ his initial state of instability. Something..." he trailed off as his mind focused on a sudden idea. The room remained silent in respect for his thoughts.

"That's it!" Tobirama continued. "The Wall...Hashirama, you crazy idiot, you." Looking around at the faces attentively turned in his direction, Tobirama properly addressed the gathering for the first time that evening: "My fellow countrymen, I believe our First Hokage had this situation figured out from the beginning. He set this entire thing up so we could finally kick Madara's ugly Uchiha ass."

Several chuckles accompanied his statement before a young man rose to speak. "I hate to interrupt in the midst of your epiphany, Tobirama-sensei, but I'm afraid most of us don't follow your train of thought. And I know from experience that if nobody asks you to explain, you won't," Tobirama's pupil, Hiruzen Sarutobi, said with a grimace.

Tobirama chuckled. "Very well," he said with a mock bow, "if you insist."

Sarutobi smiled and sat down to listen.

"Hashirama had this figured out before the betrayal. When he battled Madara...however long ago..."

"Ten years, sir."

"Ten years ago, then, he knew he wasn't facing the real Madara. He knew it was a clone. But the White Wall is such a complex jutsu that it affects all three parts of the human essence: mind, body, and soul. Hashirama channeled that jutsu to weaken the real Madara's mind by first devouring the clone - since both the fake and real Madara were imperceptibly linked by their shared chakra, a normal chakra-based attack on the clone keeps the user relatively safe. However, the Wall isn't based on chakra; it uses the White Arts. So, the Wall just followed Madara's Dark chakra paths and... boom! Hit the real Madara while destroying the fake along the way.

"That was the first part. The Wall further split Madara's soul into two fragments: light and shadow. The light half disappeared, but the shadow made up the root of Madara's character, so it stayed behind and was further pounded by the Deafening. It's the Deafening that threw Madara in his unstable state...this 'madness', as it were. Essentially, the Deafening ate his mind after the Surge weakened him by splitting his soul in two halves."

Tobirama paused to make sure everyone was following. Seeing the intensity on his fellow Konoha Nin's faces, he continued. "Hashirama was able to weaken Madara's chakra reserves significantly when he cursed the Fox. Madara cannot summon it into battle any longer, which forces him to fight with his own powers, in his own body. And he can't continue to hide behind his clones, because he doesn't know that _I_ don't know the White Arts as well as my brother; he therefore has to assume that I do.

"So, there's no more Fox because it's cursed out of his detestable reach, and there will be no more ingenious plans because his mind is broken; he'll consequently be more impulsive and less careful. Things are looking good for us, now that his two main weapons are no longer issues."

Inuzuka-san looked at Tobirama a moment. "How can you be certain all you have conjectured is true?" she asked.

"Hashirama left me enough hints."

"Ah. So, since you've discovered the meaning behind the madness, if I may say so, have you also figured out how to defeat him?"

Tobirama's excited face turned abruptly grim. "Yes, I have," he answered. "My job is to complete Hashirama's White Wall."

"There's more?" she asked in disbelief. "A jutsu that powerful has another phase?"

"Yes. Hashirama made sure I found it in the old libraries when we were splitting from Rock Country. I think he knew Madara would betray him this way, sooner or later. He wanted Konoha prepared for the worst-case scenario, and, well, this is it."

"So, what is it?"

Tobirama sighed. "More White Arts stuff. It's going to be tough to figure out without Hashirama's help."

"What can we do in the meantime, while you learn?" she asked.

Tobirama looked at the people assembled before him. All that was left of Konoha, of his brother's dreams. He sighed, suddenly weary.

"Evacuate."

... ... ...

Tobirama had honestly expected to arrive alone; however, his ever-loyal advisor, Inuzuka-san, would hear absolutely nothing of it. She had appeared on the crest of the battlefield moments after he did, silently directing the rest of their forces to ready themselves in strategic, concealed locations surrounding the woodlands protecting Konoha from the rest of the world. Despite the feelings of annoyance bubbling beneath the surface (from being ignored by his own subordinates), Tobirama couldn't help but find himself relieved that he wasn't facing this day alone. Of course an Inuzuka wouldn't leave him to face the enemy without backup; to her, they were all part of a pack. She would follow him until the end.

As the sun rose, brightening the morning sky in a smearing wash of bright yellows and reds, Tobirama stood still and listened. He had hoped another all-out confrontation wouldn't be necessary, but he had forgotten Madara's all-consuming hunger for the clash of battle. Approaching in formation from the smoldering remains of Konoha was the rest of the Uchiha Elite, proudly led by the most pompous leader Tobirama had ever seen.

Madara led his troops in ceremonial Hokage dress, complete with sparkling white robes, emblazoned hat, and Uchiha war fan. His hair was let loose, blowing behind him in the wind while his eyes burned a threatening, smoldering red. Tobirama could tell by Madara's movements that he was utterly, unabashedly proud of his accomplishments, and furthermore, that he was quite dressed in battle-armor underneath the white, billowing facade.

Tobirama wasn't sure how the final confrontation began. There was no sudden trumpet blast, no shout to charge, no bloodthirsty race towards suicide. The two armies simply melded into the forests and that was that: battle on. It seemed as if hundreds of quiet skirmishes surrounded Tobirama, with an occasional scream cutting through the heavy morning air, but it was certainly the quietest battle he had ever encountered. For several tense moments it almost seemed surreal. But then the fireball came hurtling his way and time sped up.

Dodging quickly, Tobirama sent a handful of paper bombs at Madara, turned, and disappeared towards the ruins of Konoha. Whatever else happened, he had to be absolutely certain he lured Madara away from the rest of his warriors. Without backup, Madara would have the upper hand in combat, but Tobirama couldn't risk subjecting his own forces to what he needed to do.

Madara, as expected, followed Tobirama into the midst of destruction: Mangekyou Sharingan ablaze with hatred and fury; lips pulled together in a tight, pale line; poisoned kunai flying; Genjutsu swinging. Luckily for Tobirama, he had a bit of experience with Madara's favored battle tactics and knew how to avoid falling into Madara's traps. However, it proved to be more difficult in practice than he had initially anticipated. He distractedly felt the sting of chakra fly by his face, but couldn't take time to register he had been burned; all he knew was that he had to keep going. He had to keep running until he reached the Falls, those awful Falls.

The Falls past which his brother fell.

Where Hashirama's blood had spilled.

And where Madara would meet his end.


	14. Traps

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

Despite the burning throb on his cheek that clawed itself into a fiery sting the faster he ran, Tobirama pushed onward, trying his best to keep a step and a half ahead of Madara as he made for the Falls. Tobirama needn't have worried: Madara was thoroughly fixated on the task of catching his quarry (having no qualms about their eventual destination, just so long as he could finally put an end to the last surviving member of the Senju clan) and paid no attention to the surrounding scenery.

Tobirama raced to the cusp of the Falls, careful to keep an eye on Madara whenever he was given a chance. Looking back once more, Tobirama was suddenly startled to discover Madara was no longer behind him. He skidded to a halt, intently watching. Listening. A moment passed. His heart beat. Once. Twice. No sound could be heard above the heavy roaring of the cascade.

Suddenly: a fire blast.

A body tumbled.

A splash.

A laugh.

Silence.

Madara jumped from the edge of the Falls, well aware of the fact that Tobirama was waiting to greet his arrival beneath the surface of the great pool. Calculating his landing, Madara made absolutely certain there was no sign of attack from his concealed opponent. He deftly initiated his own move by laying on the full power of the Mangekyo's Amaterasu in exactly the same spot where Tobirama's body proved itself not-as-well-hidden as he would have liked to admit. Black fire erupted in an unquenchable rage, hungrily consuming the area in a frothing of thick steam and flame.

_A clone, _mused Madara. _For shame, really._ His eyes, ever vigilant, swept over the disturbed surface of the watery battle arena, entirely prepared for a counterattack. Sensing movement from somewhere above, Madara turned, narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun, and quickly signed a jutsu of forbidden origin.

Instead of discovering an approaching target on whom he could release his deadly technique, Madara's sharp eyes spotted one running _away_ from the battle. _What cowardice! _Madara thought in indignation, quickly rising to the top of the Falls in pursuit. _Why would he run? Unless...yes. He has a trap somewhere, and wishes to lure me into it. Well, _he chuckled, _I suppose I'll just have to oblige; I'm too much of a gentleman to let his hard work go to waste. _

... ... ...

Satisfied with the length of his newly acquired lead, Tobirama sped toward the forest beyond. He knew exactly where he was going, but strongly doubted Madara had even the faintest, most obscure hint of an idea; the place of Hashirama's death would only hold significance for one of them now. But there the ominous clearing was, hidden behind a veil of thick foliage, beneath the burnt trees crossed at their tops, with a shattered log and rather sizable chunks of scattered debris left forgotten by time. Several large holes punctured the partially blackened earth (Tobirama didn't remember the battle well enough to recall their origin, but neither did he have the time right now to contemplate the possibilities), but other than the flush carpet of moss and leafy foliage, the place hadn't changed all that much in ten years. Hashirama's blood still stained the ground beneath those same trees, and that was where Tobirama planted himself, calmly awaiting the appearance of his brother's murderer.

Tobirama's hand signs didn't take long to prepare.

... ... ...

Madara entered the clearing at full speed, heedless of any impending danger. It was terribly well known that Hashirama had been the stronger brother, so Madara felt no need to exercise too much caution while dispatching the younger Senju. Besides, Madara's fire techniques were sufficiently hot enough to vaporize any of those fancy little water-droplet tricks Tobirama may have held in store. And without water, Tobirama was next to useless in battle.

Madara was pleasantly surprised to discover Tobirama hadn't taken any pains to conceal himself. This would apparently be a head-on confrontation, ferocious and thirsty, with none of that slinking-around-the-trees bullshit which so often characterized the more recent versions of the Way of the Ninja. This battle was going to take less time than Madara had first thought; but then again, if Tobirama resorted to luring his opponent into a trap to even the scales, well, so much the better. Perhaps there would be a moment's worth of entertainment before Madara became bored and bloodily dispatched his newest playmate.

A slow grin spread over Madara's face as he used a substitution technique to close the distance between himself and his foe: a grin which grew all the wider when he noticed his opponent's eyes were closed. _You're serious now, are you?_ he thought, and flicked his wrist nonchalantly, instantaneously toasting the world in front of him.

He had expected Tobirama to move out of the way, and was admittedly surprised to discover his opponent had taken the fiery blast full-on without using so much as a clone for protection. Neither did he substitute or shield himself with water. In fact, Tobirama's corpse was thoroughly blackened and smoking, exactly as if Madara's attack had hit his target dead on!

Except that charred remains weren't supposed to release their own jutsus.

Madara had been surprised by the sudden counter, but he wasn't stupid; never once did he let his guard down. He withstood the onslaught of water easily, finding himself forced backwards only a few feet. The ice daggers were likewise deflected, as were the various shuriken and other metallic projectiles hidden within their midsts. It wasn't difficult for Madara to defend himself from the attack, but it quickly become tedious: predictable. Deciding he'd much rather dispatch Tobirama as soon as possible and return to the _real_ battlefield, Madara substituted himself to the branch above Tobirama's fire-blackened body. As expected, the equally charred branch gave way beneath his weight. Madara used the resultant rain of debris as a makeshift weapon; Tobirama not only had to evade Madara's attacks, but also the chunks of falling material large enough to impale him.

Madara was once again surprised when Tobirama refused to move. Viciously slamming a kunai atop his opponent's immobile head, Madara soon discovered why. Instead of shattering a skull or a shield, the kunai bent back upon itself, cutting deeply into Madara's knuckles. Narrowing his eyes in irritation, Madara momentarily leaped away from Tobirama and pried his hand free of the bent steel, using his excess chakra to close the wound. Madara frowned as he contemplated the nature of Tobirama's defense, finally analyzing it with the Sharingan and coming up blank.

"A White Art, isn't it?" he said. "Well done."

"Thank you," came the reply. "I expect you will now switch to your Dark Arts in order to destroy my shield?"

"Precisely."

"I see." Tobirama waited patiently as the promised attack flew at him, effectively shattering his previously impenetrable defense and forcing him to take a step backwards. "That actually took you a while to figure out," he said. "Getting slow in your old age?"

Madara chuckled dryly. "You've learned quite a bit since the last time I fought you."

"I have, indeed."

"You never were much good with the White Arts."

"No. But I am now."

"I see. You're attempting to take vengeance upon me for killing Hashirama. "

"And for Konoha."

"Your patriotism is sickening. But I'm feeling merciful. I believe I'd like to kill you here, where you can consider yourself happy before you die, because you have the knowledge that you and your brother were both slain in the same spot."

Tobirama's face reddened and his fists clenched, but he held his ground. _One step closer, you presumptuous fool,_ he thought. _One step closer and you're mine._

He didn't get his one step. Before he had realized how quickly Madara could move, there had been three, and Tobirama found himself reeling from the sudden blow to his midsection. Doubling over and dropping to one knee, Tobirama felt a powerful kick connect with his shoulder, and he was thrown aside, tumbling amid briar-infested weeds. Coughing, he released his dispersal jutsu just as Madara's boot crashed through hishead and splashed the rest of his body like a child through a puddle. Madara released a fireball to consume the water droplets, but Tobirama had retreated beneath the surface of the ground, very narrowly escaping the layer of earth which Madara so thoroughly baked. Arising on the other side of his foe, Tobirama placed a boot in the small of Madara's back and felt a great sense of satisfaction when Madara's stance momentarily faltered and he tumbled to the dirt.

Madara, however, turned the tumble into a roll and arose on one knee with an Amaterasu raging as angrily as he. Tobirama had hidden, leaving the attack with no target other than the decaying remains of a moss-covered log; Madara swore in frustration. Tobirama smiled, but carefully maintained his composure in order to avoid detection. Meanwhile, he slithered along a tree branch west of Madara and prepared to detonate a string of waiting paper bombs.

The bombs exploded in a great upheaval of earth, raining rock and soil throughout the battlefield. Madara disappeared, and Tobirama seized the opportunity to escape to another tree. Skidding along, he caught a glimpse of Madara, dodged the burst of lethal projectiles thrown at his face, and dropped back to the ground. He ran through a smoldering crater, using the smoke to cover his movements. Madara gave chase.

At this point, Tobirama fell into a crouch, span, and let out a low kick to trip his pursuing opponent. Madara agilely leapt above the obstruction and prepared to unleash a ferocious funnel of hungry flames. He was instead hit squarely in the chest by a force that was nearly invisible, yet strongly reminiscent of a powerful kick.

Tobirama smiled in triumph.

Madara, for his part, regained his balance and composure quickly. He eyed his smirking opponent with suspicion, knowing it had been physically impossible for that attack to have been the result of Tobirama's taijutsu; their spacing was too awkward for an attack so solid. Keeping on his guard, Madara circled the arena warily, watching through his Sharingan for the telltale signs of loosened chakra.

The blankness gave it away. "A White Art," he sighed. "This is becoming old."

Tobirama smiled. "I only use them because they're effective. That's twice I've managed to take you off your guard."

"So it seems."

"And yet," flowed a third voice, "it is almost as if the great Madara has fought this entire battle a bit carelessly."

Madara frowned, glancing around for the newcomer. He had known this fight was a trap from the start, but he had seen no signs of a second opponent. The smoke from the explosions still thickened the air and caused his eyes to water in irritation. Ignoring this, he expanded his other senses to detect the locations of all parties present on the battlefield.

He glowered when he discovered the trick. "_You_," he growled.

A bow of acknowledgement met his words, executed gracefully, if a bit mockingly.

"You impertinent little bastard. I am the _Hokage!_" Madara roared.

"So you claim, Madara. So you claim."

Tobirama chuckled quietly so as to not gain any attention; he'd rather be left out of the verbal spar. He knew this momentary reprieve wouldn't last forever, so he gratefully took the opportunity to rest and formulate his next moves. He was weary; that last Casting had sapped much of his remaining strength, but he was still buzzed on adrenaline. While that too would begin to wear off soon, he was sure -

- his thoughts abruptly faltered when he heard Madara's agonized screams rip through the clearing.

It had begun.


	15. A Shock

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

"What," Madara gasped, struggling to remain on his feet while his body swayed drunkenly, tendrils of smoke curling from his extremities, "_is_ this?"

For a moment, neither of his opponents spoke, each looking to the other in deferral. As it happened, Tobirama wearily collapsed upon an exposed boulder, trying his best to remain alert but too exhausted to do a good job of it. He placed his elbows on his thighs, permitting his wrists to relax while he leaned forward and exhaled. His companion interpreted this gesture as a sign to take the lead, smiled affectionately, and dipped his head as a brief gesture of acknowledgement. He then turned to Madara with the smile missing. "It is the end of this war, Madara," he said, voice tired but firm. "Surrender. _Please_."

Madara's jaw clenched. "_Never_. Never to a Senju; never to _you_," he hissed, Sharingan flaring angrily.

The brothers exchanged glances before Hashirama sighed and continued, "Very well, then. Do as you wish. But I think it would be much more pleasant for all involved if you discontinued your use of the Sharingan and laid down your arms."

Madara chuckled. "You've given me all the more reason to fight."

A weary sigh. "Spite?"

"It's as good a reason as any."

"I suppose." Hashirama supplemented his remark with a wave of his wrist, and the effects of Madara's Amaterasu were rendered useless; waves of murderous black flames leapt upon his body and burned, but turned upon themselves and dissolved into nothingness an instant later.

Madara growled. Furious, he used the dimensional abilities of his Sharingan to force Hashirama into a new battle arena: somewhere deep within the nothingness of a separate plane of existence. His attack missed. Baffled, Madara analyzed the situation with the Sharingan's sophisticated methods of discerning reality from myth. "Another White Art!" he howled, eyes burning in rage as he sought to destroy Hashirama with a powerful array of Dark Artistry. This, too, failed.

"Not this time, no," Hashirama corrected softly. "You cannot destroy me, Madara."

Madara held his ground, shifting his attention to locating the whereabouts of his other opponent, but Tobirama hadn't moved. Madara contemplated the possibility of expressing his deep-rooted rage on the younger, more vulnerable Senju's corpse. However, instead of attacking recklessly, he flung an experimental kunai through the base of Hashirama's exposed throat. He watched in irritation as the projectile sailed right through, unhindered, and implanted itself somewhere in the midsts of a bush far behind. "You're still dead," he concluded. "The brat's Art brought you back."

Hashirama smiled.

"The blood," Madara continued, ignoring the provocation. "You died here; your spirit is still connected to the blood. He summoned you using it as a medium."

"Correct on all counts."

"Don't patronize me."

Hashirama said nothing, but from his out-of-the-way place atop a boulder, Tobirama murmured, "It was the White Shock."

Startled, Madara's eyes first widened, then narrowed as he recalled the name. "It resonates with the remnants of the Wall," he hissed. Hashirama looked impressed.

Tobirama looked surprised. "That's more than _I_ remembered."

_"Know thy enemy."_

Tobirama glowered.

"But that doesn't make can only use that jutsu with the prior destruction of the three counts: mind, body, and soul." Madara said, glaring at Tobirama. He contemplated the situation for a moment longer. Finally, he threw his head back and laughed loudly, heartily, even if the sounds were lacking in mirth. "You _fool_! You wasted all of your energy for _that_? It won't work!"

Tobirama's face flushed in angry embarrassment, but before he could retort, Hashirama interjected. "It will work. You fail to understand the implications behind the statement you just made, Madara."

"How so?"

"Think about the three counts."

Madara laughed again. "Itmay have fractured my mind, Hashirama, but I still live with the pieces."

"True."

"It separated my soul, but didn't destroy it. Nor did it affect my body; you took the Fox in my place!"

"True again."

"Then how is your pretty little trick going to save you, when it hasn't met the requirements to hold me in death's 'smothering grip' for all eternity? It's a Sealing Art without a target!"

Hashirama sighed again and nodded toward Tobirama, who stood wearily. "Tip it off," Hashirama said. His brother nodded solemnly.

Tobirama prepared his hand signs. Madara leapt into action. Flinging weapons in a buzzing, metallic swarm, he ruthlessly prepared a Dark Art and watched in satisfaction as its flames roared from his outstretched palm and raced coldly toward Tobirama.

Reacting quickly, Hashirama placed himself in the way, shielding his younger brother with his body. He took the full force of Madara's attack without so much as flinching, looking for all the world as if nothing had even happened. The stream of dark energy dispersed before him, parting and fading from existence, making no noise in the process. It simply vanished.

Madara was not pleased, but knew he had to plan out his next move before he made a foolish mistake and turned the entire battle against him. Fighting two mages this well versed in the Art of his opposite element was difficult, but he knew he still had the upper hand. The dead had powers of their own, able to manipulate energy in specific ways; he had only to learn Hashirama's technique and figure out a way past him. Tobirama was too tired to defend himself properly; he could be caught in a genjutsu with very little effort on Madara's part. Madara permitted himself a smirk, although it only dusted lightly upon his cheeks. His genjutsu was already in place; all he needed was Tobirama's attention, and that was something easily gained.

"You're both willing to go through all of _this,_" Madara waved dismissively at Hashirama's ghost, "to save such a pathetically weak country as Konoha?"

Tobirama's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with white-hot fury. _Yes,_ Madara thought, triumphant. _Now you're in my Tsukiyomi. Enjoy your personalized hell._

A split-second later, Madara realized his trap had not manifested itself as effectively as he had anticipated. In fact, he was rather sure the Tsukiyomi had completely missed; Tobirama wasn't affected by the genjutsu in the least. Madara frowned and swore when he discovered why.

"Chakra will not pass through my ghost," Hashirama said quietly.

"I had noticed," Madara drawled.

"Ah hah!" cried Tobirama, who accompanied his enthusiastic outburst with a slap of his palm on the ground. Dark letters skittered outward across the earth like insects, covering everything within the clearing. As they reached the edges of the forest they vanished, leaving behind no trace of what they were or what they would become. After a too-quiet moment in which the forest held its breath, the mysterious insignias reappeared, blazing back into existence one by one. Clothed in vibrant, fiery blue, they affixed themselves to every conceivable surface lying within the designated perimeter.

This included ninja as well as deceased spirits.

"What is this?" Madara shouted. "It will not work! It _cannot_ work!"

Hashirama stood next to Tobirama, supporting his weary younger brother as best he could. Tobirama was completely drained, dry of both chakra and energy, leaving him in a rather vulnerable state. However, the Art had taken its hold, and there was nothing more to be done. Madara would finally be finished by the White Shock.

Hashirama spoke as a gentle rolling motion oscillated the earth beneath his feet. "You have one count against you," he said. "Your mind _was_ taken. You have simply been left with the remaining fragments. The Wall doesn't kill those whose minds it rends."

"SO?"

"Together, Tobirama and myself complete the remaining two requirements."

"Impossible!"

"Not so. _I_ died, remember? The Wall took everything I had; unleashing it is what killed me." He paused for a moment, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "Therefore, you should understand it claimed my body. That marks me as the second count."

Madara snarled and lunged at Hashirama with all the hatred he could muster, but found himself immobilized by the lettering which had so recently tattooed itself across his body. The best he managed was a slight shuffling of his right foot, but it immediately anchored itself in its new position with renewed vigor. He found it impossible to move any further.

"Tobirama was also affected," Hashirama continued, choosing to ignore Madara's struggles as he maneuvered a largely unresponsive Tobirama into a comfortable sitting position, all the while remaining unhindered by the spell which was so successfully binding Madara. "His battle was internal. He was required to triumph over the demons within himself; this purified his soul of all traces of its former darkness. How else do you explain his sudden mastery of an Art that requires the purest of White energies to perform? Madara, I know you knew this; Tobirama was too Grey to be any good at White Artistry before the Wall touched him."

Madara tried to respond, but a new insignia had burst upon his lips, stealing his voice. He watched the same phenomenon happen to both of the Senju brothers, but he could see in Hashirama's eyes what was to come next: _Tobirama was count three: the spirit. You have been sealed. _The White Shock was successfully completed, not because it had been presented with the three counts of a single victim, but because there had been three sacrifices, each with a separate, specific role.

_Damn you!_ Madara thought. _Damn you!_

Hashirama's eyes softened as he gazed upon his brother. _I'm sorry_, he thought, wishing he had the means to communicate his regrets. _This is twice I've had to leave you. Be strong for Konoha. Love her with all of your heart for me._

In all, the binding of Madara's curse took little time to complete. After the ritual letterings had blazed themselves to searing extinction, the ground pulsed outward, reversed its elastic flow, and abruptly sank into itself at the point of initiation, effectively creating a land-based version of a black hole. The entire clearing was drawn forward into unfathomable depths: trees, boulders, logs, and people. There was nothing left behind.

Nothing more than a smooth, featureless landscape.

...

"That's it?" Madara gaped in astonishment. "That's how the three of you died?

Hashirama chuckled as he led Madara away from the threads of Tobirama's memory. "You caught yourself up in the moment and forgot I was the only one who perished."

Madara blinked. "Wait...you were already dead."

"Very perceptive."

"What happened?"

Hashirama gazed into the infinitely black void of the realm in which he had been trapped for so long. "Uchiha Madara was bound into eternal death-sleep by the completion of the Shock. That is what it had been intended to be used for, and it worked well until he freed himself in your time." He gestured to the surrounding nothingness before continuing. "As a spirit, I could not be bound to death-sleep, so I was locked here. And as for Tobirama, well, he got lucky."

"What happened to him?"

"He was trapped here for a time, but the void eventually pushed him out, none the worse for wear. The Art only needed one sacrifice: me, the instigator of the White Wall.

"As for Madara, his body was recovered, placed in a stone sarcophagus in some forgotten cave in the middle of nowhere, and sealed with as many runes and wards as conceivably possible. There he slept until the curse broke, dragging you into this mess with him." Hashirama sighed, looked at Madara, and continued.

"Tobirama returned to Konoha a few months after the battle and discovered Konoha's rebellion had succeeded. Without Madara, the Uchiha were disorganized and demoralized; Madara had been so tyrannical that they had forgotten how to think for themselves in battle. Naturally, Inuzuka-san exploited the opportunity to its fullest, secured the city within the day, and began stabilizing the rest of the country. After Tobirama came back, she immediately threw together a Council, officially appointed Tobirama as Konoha's true Second Hokage, and let him take over from there."

Hashirama paused, a smile playing upon his lips. Madara glanced at him, contemplative, but clearly understood Hashirama couldn't have been any prouder.


	16. Lookalike

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

The woman at the coffee shop smiled pleasantly while she served him his order, ponytail bouncing as excitedly as the sparkling light behind her warm eyes. "It's great to see you, Madara!" she said, absently waving her hand at another server to tell him to seat the next few customers. "I've missed you. Where have you been this past week?" Smiling, she slid onto the seat opposite him and listened attentively.

"Traveling," he said. "Seeing some things."

"How exciting!" she cooed. "It's a big city, isn't it? I've lived here all my life, and have only really seen this part of it."

"Yeah." He carefully sipped his coffee and judged it still a little too warm to drink. "Me too."

"What'd you see?"

"Quite a bit."

"Like what?"

"Stuff."

She laughed brightly, quite used to Madara's minimal efforts to carrying on a decent conversation. Taking no offense, she walked over to his side of the table and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "If there's anything bothering you," she said, voice low so the other patrons couldn't hear, "let me know."

He looked into her deep, brown eyes and said nothing.

... ... ...

The coffee shop was in an uproar. A pretty, young waitress had suddenly collapsed to the floor, spilling coffee, chairs, and customers. Patrons panicked, some shouted at one another, and somebody called for an ambulance. There was no blood, no wound, no explanation for the cause of her collapse. But despite this, she was unmistakably dead.

Madara calmly finished his coffee, paid his tab, and exited via the back door.

Her soul was now his.

... ... ...

His strength was returning to him quickly. For each soul he absorbed through his Mangekyou, years of shackled power flooded freely into his body. He was becoming more formidable than ever, and it was happening at an appreciably fast rate. He couldn't help but smile. It seemed as if Hashirama himself was aiding Uchiha Madara's second rise to power; as long as the First Hokage remained locked within his own prison of endless, memory-woven time-space, the remaining tendrils of the Curse were rendered useless. The caster was simply too far away to strengthen the bonds; soon, they would dissolve altogether.

He laughed, relishing the feel of unhindered exultation: something he had missed for far too long.

... ... ...

Hashirama's pleased countenance quickly melted into one of keen perceptiveness. He stared into the distance, eyes narrowed, body tensed, senses alert.

Madara yawned. "What's the big deal now?"

Hashirama practically growled. "Your other half."

"So?"

"He is awake."

"You already knew _that_."

Hashirama let out a frustrated sigh and turned fully to face his companion. "Madara is wandering around your home town, killing people, feeding off their souls, and mindlessly wreaking havoc. If you cannot get yourself excited about battling him for the sake of the world, then do so for your own reputation, which he is well on his way to besmirching."

Madara glared, but didn't have time to formulate a properly scathing comeback; he was promptly shoved into another tiny sun, this one swallowing him in an instant, leaving him disoriented and confused when he exited. He lost his balance, hopped twice, and sprawled out on the pavement with cars honking wildly while they swerved around his body. Panicked, he scrambled out of the way of oncoming traffic and ducked under the awning of a nearby meat shop.

"_What the hell?_" he hollered at Hashirama, who, of course, being the _already dead guy_, had materialized on the _sidewalk_.

Hashirama turned from Madara, but not in time to hide the smirk from his lips. This only served to (predictably) irritate Madara further, but before he had the chance to reply, he was again interrupted by a shove from behind.

"We should perpare to intercept him," Hashirama said.

"You can do it yourself," Madara grumbled.

"I will do the hard part."

"You're pretending that being the _bait_ isn't a difficult job? I have to try my best to stay alive while some crazy megalomanic comes after my life with a vengeance fueled by centuries of isolation! Oh, and by the way, he also looks like me!"

Hashirama tilted his head to the side, considering the matter. "Well," he said, "maybe he looks a little more evil than you do. But your scowls are fairly similar."

Madara punched through Hashirama and fell to the sidewalk, having overbalanced when his fist refused to connect with the ghost's flesh. Hashirama managed to hide his laughter this time, and quickly picked Madara up off the ground without cracking so much as a hint of a smile. "We need to go," he urged softly. "Before the police come after you."

"P-police?" Madara sputtered.

"I told you he was besmirching your reputation."

"Great. Just great," Madara said, running a hand over his exasperated face. Sensing movement, he shoved his hands into his pockets and obediently followed Hashirama into an alleyway partially concealed behind the meat shop.

"Now what's this all about?" Madara asked in severe annoyance as he carefully stepped over the filth and garbage lining the forgotten alley. He grimaced occasionally, trying his best to keep the various kinds of rotting material off his favorite pair of sneakers.

Hashirama shrugged and led Madara toward a dumpster, overflowing and forgotten, stench ripening in the heat of the day. Madara gagged and his eyes watered, but he couldn't find a way to ask his question again without fear of upchucking whatever remained in his stomach from the last meal he had eaten however long before.

Hashirama wandered around the edge of the bulking, oversized trash bin, vanishing completely from view when Madara tried to follow. Hashirama promptly reappeared behind Madara and seized a great fistful of black, unruly hair. Madara gagged out a "_What are - ?_" but had no time for anything else before he saw the kunai being drawn, lifting maliciously out of his peripheral vision. He was no ninja; he couldn't react quickly enough to avoid the inevitable, merciless downward slash. Hashirama's weapon sliced through the air with such a sharp edge that at first Madara thought it hadn't even touched him. But then he felt a strange, light-headed sensation overcome him, and he knew it had done its job.

"Why'd you cut my hair, man?" he screeched.

Hashirama tossed the severed locks into the dumpster and carefully trimmed the rest of Madara's hair to an even length. "To disguise your appearance. It would be terribly inconvenient if you really were arrested in your lookalike's place."

"I hate you!"

"I know."

"It doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

"Not in the least."

"You're annoying, and pushy, and demanding, and frustrating!"

"And you are whiny, ignorant, choleric, and unpleasant."

"...I really _do_ hate you."

"I know."

... ... ...

Existing in the modern era was indescribably fantastic. Uchiha Madara had never encountered a world so perfectly conquerable as this. It was a place densely populated by thousands of egocentric idiots busily running to and fro, too wrapped within their own selves to care much for their neighbor. It was a place where science and ignorance prevailed, leaving no room for the knowledge or mastery of magic and the meaning of real power. Chaos ran rampant though the streets; confusion thrived in the gutters. No one was going to miss those rotting bodies he had disposed of along the way. At least Madara had extended courtesy enough to thank them for the use of their souls.

All he needed now was the boy. Once he was able to reclaim that pathetic runaway portion of his own spirit, Uchiha Madara would become complete: whole once again on all three counts. He would grasp power like none had ever fathomed, rising from the ashes unbelievably strong, supplied with an eternity's worth of patiently hoarded chakras and stores of Dark Energy.

He had waited for this moment for a very long time.

The first thing on his to-do list would be to reclaim his Fox from the abyssal hell it had been banished to. The second, of course, was to kill Hashirama, and actually make his death _permanent _this time. No more apparitions rising from the dead, traveling through space-time to thwart him. No; this game of chase was about to end, and damn it all, Hashirama _would_ lose.

Sighing, Madara stared out the window of some recently deceased victim's beat-up car, turned the key, and drove east, hoping to find the kid imitation of himself before Hashirama could do anything _else_ destructive in the meantime.

It was amazing how quickly a ghost could mess with your plans.


	17. Found You

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

It was almost as if he had unknowingly looked into a mirror, having to double-take at the suddenness of glipsing his very own reflection. The same dark eyes. The same angry scowl. The same surety of step, saunter of walk, and posture of confidence. The same air of pomposity, manner of speech, and bitterness of tongue. The only difference was the ridiculous haircut, but judging by the way the short, silky locks glimmered in the sun in an even line, the styling had probably been handled by Hashirama and not the boy.

That, at least, was a relief.

Madara quickly swung his car around in the middle of a busy intersection, doing a spontaneous U-turn while gesturing nonverbal messages back at the irate drivers behind him. Cruising along a bit over the limit, Madara made sure to keep an eye on his missing half from the rearview mirror while he deliberately maneuvered his car _away_ from his target so as to not attract his attention. Seeing that Hashirama wasn't hovering anywhere near the boy, Madara grinned maliciously to himself and pulled into a restaurant's parking lot in order to backtrack without having to swing another U-turn. It wouldn't do to be pulled over by a cop _now_ of all times; not when he had finally found himself again.

Back on the road, Madara set to somewhat discreetly tailing his walking counterpart, joyously discovering an opportunity to make a move when the boy entered a music store. Finding an adequate parking space wasn't difficult when your Mangekyou could send objects to another dimension, so Madara pulled into a spot with relative ease, left his keys in the ignition, cast a shielding Art on the car to ensure no one but himself could touch it without having their skin boil and melt from their very bones, and made his way into the store. He strode up the three entry steps with nonchalant ease, whistling a happy little tune; his choice of song was so ancient nobody would know it was something warrior ninja of old sang before entering a battle they were already confident of winning.

He walked through the shop's doors with confidence, sharp eyes rapidly adjusting to the dimness of the interior. Choosing a discreet shelf to browse, he set his senses on alert, trying to discern the location of his target before he gave any indication of actually _looking_. Sensing his own chakra from a room in the back of the shop, Madara casually made his way over, appearing as if he were merely browsing the aisles. With the grace of a ninja long since lost to this era, Madara disappeared through the veil separating the front of the shop from the back. He was undetected, unnoticed, and altogether unseen.

The room was filled high with boxes, the trash cans with cellophane, and the walls littered with old pieces of tape haphazardly stuck there for some unknown purpose. Glancing around, Madara stealthily made his way through the labyrinthine array and reached an outer wall covered from floor to ceiling in mirrors. Staying close to it, he leisurely traced the perimeter of the room, finally discovering his target.

The boy was shrugging off his jacket, carelessly placing it upon a rack beside several others. His valuables were stashed in a dingy little locker, but his cellphone and employee identification card both stayed in his pocket. The boy told Madara he was quite oblivious to the danger lurking not three yards away when he flipped open his phone and checked his waiting messages.

This was the time to strike.

...

"Madara," a quiet voice called from somewhere off to his right. With a sigh, Madara closed his phone and turned around, discovering, to his surprise, that it was not his boss harping at him for being nearly fifteen minutes late for the fourth time that week. Instead, Madara found himself staring into the face of someone he recognized quite well, from the familiar dark eyes to the flowing, long, dark hair.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Madara whispered. "This is where I work! Go back home and wait!"

Hashirama barely acknowledged the fact that he was being spoken to. Instead of listening, he grasped Madara by the upper arm and urgently led him out of the shop. Hashirama ended up bodily dragging Madara most of the way; the boy was reluctant to let the ghost lead him into another alleyway. Who knew what the undead idiot would try to cut off this time? Struggling, Madara tried to fight against the ghost, but his struggles were to no avail. Finally, he stopped fidgeting and asked, "What is up with you?"

Hashirama looked him in the eye and glowered.

Madara stared.

Hashirama's charming visage began to melt, sliding away from his bones in a hiss of steam and fluid-like ooze. His skin pooled, sagged, and puddled, freely running from his body, falling off exposed bones in semi-solid clumps. The bones themselves began to twist and contort, crackling and splintering: _laughing_. The bones were _laughing_. And from all around, a voice identical to Madara's own seeped through the cracks of the alley walls, rising like steam to burn the tips of his ears.

"_You're finally mine."_

_..._

The child had taken the bait. It was all too easy. The instant they had made eye contact through the reflective surface of the mirrored outer wall, Uchiha Madara's Sharingan had blazed into full glory, trapping the boy in a genjutsu before the sluggard's brain had even registered it _wasn't_ actually looking at Hashirama. Madara chuckled to himself, reveling in the feel of victory. He savored and relished the power soon to be his, grinning as he felt the euphoric rush of glorious triumph race circuits through his veins.

His face was aflame with delight. Chuckling, he tilted his head back and laughed, listening with pleasure as the resounding echoes laughed along with him.

...

"_So...this is a genjutsu, huh?"_

"_Yep."_

"_What do I do now? Wait until he tries to absorb me?"_

"_Pretty much."_

"_And then what?"_

"_Then I surprise him. That's what."_

"_How are you going to do that?"_

"_I'm not sure yet. But I'll come up with something."_

"_...That's not reassuring."_

"_Hey." A shrug. "It's not my problem. I'm only babysitting you."_

"_You're as infuriating as your brother."_

_A grin. "Really? Wow! Thanks!"_

"_I hate you."_

"_You hate him, too."_

"_I hate you more."_

"_Classic. Let's just say the feeling's mutual: I don't like you, either."_

...

After the ringing peals of laughter ceased, having soaked into the very core of the surrounding stone and mortar, Uchiha Madara gazed at his prey and wondered how exactly he wanted to proceed. He needed to rip the boy's soul from his body without delay - so as to get the job over and done with before that dolt Hashirama found the time to show up and mess with his plans - but he also didn't want to risk completely shredding the soul in his haste, as that might waste the body. If Madara took his time with the extraction, the two halves of his soul would finally be reunited and he would gain power unfathomable. He would also be left with the child's empty husk; that could easily be used to wreak destruction and mayhem upon the face of the earth. He himself would become quite invincible in the meantime, protected by the combined powers of Light _and_ Dark Arts, channeling the Dark through himself and the Light through the newly reclaimed other half of himself.

All in all, it sounded like a fantastic plan, and he wasted no time putting it into action.

Performing the necessary hand seals, Uchiha Madara raised a triumphant arm to the sky and began unravelling the strings of chakra which bound his lighter soul to its reincarnated shell. If he was patient about this, it would take scarcely a minute to complete and he would be whole. Seeing as it took about that long for a spirit to manifest itself from the nothingness of whatever lay beyond the mortal plane, Madara had plenty of time to kill before Hashirama could drop in for the most casual of hellos.

With no further distractions in mind, Madara continued unraveling chakra strings and whistled a happy little tune to himself, one that ninja of old would sing while dancing and celebrating their hard-won victories over the enemy's dead.


	18. Absorption

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

... ... ...

A gruesome chill rippled throughout his core. It began behind his stomach, ghosting like an effervescent phantom, before bubbling outward in all directions until everything under his skin was on fire while still submerged under ice: all things contradictory in one disorienting moment. He felt his entire body tighten involuntarily, as if his muscles were forcefully binding his very bones in place, contracting to impossible limits, holding without breaking, and then solidifying in a wave of nausea. He had encased himself in living concrete.

His breath caught and died in his throat as his lungs ceased expanding and contracting, paralyzed as they were. His heartbeat seemed to squeeze itself into silence, his cells slowed their movements and his blood no longer flowed. He was frozen, unable to twitch more than his eyes, but that ability too was fading.

His frightened eyes could do nothing more than watch as a man who looked very much like an older version of himself mumbled strange words in an even stranger language. He was grinning a hollow sort of smile: fiendish, malevolent, dark and cautious, all at one time.

...

_"You've stopped fighting."_

_"I can't move anymore! He froze me somehow!"_

_"Then I guess it's time to get to work."_

_"You think?_ _This is happening awfully fast, you know!"_

_"Eh, you're not all that important, loud-mouth."_

_"What? I thought if _I _died, _he'd_ become invincible! Wouldn't that be a problem for you?"_

_"Not really. It'd be more of an inconvenience than anything else. I've already saved my world; no need to get involved saving yours. I'm dead! What more do I care?"_

_Madara's angry eyes narrowed. "You're lying. We both know it."_

_A grin flashed in response. "Just a bit. But, really, I need to get to work. He's faster than I thought he'd be. If I don't get to this, I'm going to miss it."_

_"Let me guess: you've only got one shot."_

_There was no answer. Madara would take that as an affirmative._

_..._

Madara sighed within his mind, unable to do so physically. He tried to conceal his worry, impatience, and growing ire with the situation at hand, but there was truly nothing more he could do. He hated feeling helpless, trapped, and vulnerable. He was unable to move, on the verge of being murdered by a man who looked just like himself, and found he was feeling weaker, dizzier, and lighter by the passing second...

And then he suddenly felt as if he were floating, although he was certain the heavy _thud_ echoing through the alleyway was caused by his own body crumpling to the solid pavement beneath his sneakers.

Peering curiously down, Madara could see himself sprawled unceremoniously at his very own feet, with a writhing mess of tendril-like things twining his heart to his other self's. (It was all very weird.) He knew he didn't have much time left; his life was draining past in audible _whooshes_, transferring from the crumpled body to the triumphant one as if by force of an external heartbeat. He was essentially being absorbed by another being, but it strangely felt as if he were sinking _within_ himself, despite remaining in a position where he could freely float from above. He was watching the scene from a place just outside his fallen body, hovering transparently a head or two higher than his attacker. However, despite being no more than a ghost, he undeniably felt the coolness of someone's skin, the warmth of strengthening muscles and organs, the freshness of the oxygen in his blood as it raced through his rejuvenating core.

But he still saw himself, lying against the pavement, motionless and unresponsive. Eyes open and staring. He was nothing more than a corpse now.

_Where the hell was Tobirama?_

But then he felt a new sensation trickle to the forefront of his mind, and his focus turned from panic to the comfort of his inside-self, the body he was becoming. He could feel the beat of a different heart thrumming alongside his own, fluttering and ghostlike though it was. The other heart was pounding in perfect harmony, growing louder, stronger, and darker as he listened in timeless silence. The blood from the new heart was thicker, more malicious; the bones in that body were stronger and more deeply scarred; the organs healthier, but undeniably more ancient. They were his, even though they were not-his, but his-his and not-his were becoming one, so it didn't really matter either way. His was still his.

He saw something dark appear ahead, and he was afraid of it. But he noticed his floating, see-through self was something light, and knew it was going to be okay. The dark was calling out to him. Reaching, floating-Madara grasped the dark arms waiting to guide him, and felt himself fall into a place that had been waiting, waiting for a very long time. It was someplace safe, somewhere he knew he belonged. Something entirely, irrevocably his.

And then he felt cold. Much too cold. Something was wrong; something was wrong with his safe-place. Something was absorbing him, and he was slipping away again. Something was eating him, devouring him, consuming him from the inside out. But he couldn't escape and he couldn't get away. All he could do was scream.

The world became dark, and Madara screamed no more.

...

In truth, Uchiha Madara hadn't expected it to be that easy. He had been on high alert, senses straining as much as his divided concentration would allow, prepared for the beginning of the inevitable battle between good and evil. He had expected Hashirama to show up and heroically save the day by trying to save the kid, but nothing happened. Madara even tarried a few moments after the absorption was complete, just in case he had missed Hashirama in all the excitement. But no one was waiting there to kill him. No one had stepped forward to try a hand at foiling his plans.

After so many countless centuries of waiting, after so many unfathomable years of careful preparation and a burning, raging desire for revenge, he had finally succeeded in his quest to become a complete being. Light and dark were united once more in his soul, and he was whole again. Whole like he once was, so very long ago.

Feeling a shade disappointed at Hashirama's refusal to even bother to _show up and fight him_, Uchiha Madara bent down and gathered the lifeless body lying awkwardly at his feet. With no effort at all, he pulled it into his Sharingan, storing it away for later use. He'd be sure to implant a separate soul or something equally nefarious later, but now...

Now he just wanted a cup of coffee.


	19. Symphony of Chaos

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

...

Madara sauntered down the streets, fingers tapping against his sides to the beat of the music around him: soprano screams of frantic women and children; deep, bass rumbles from the blackened sky; the steady beat of feet running, pounding, never ending; the chaos of the world around him punctuated with the cymbal-like effect of crashing, tinkling glass. (It was amazing, discovering the music in the cacophony of fear he had created while terrorizing this feeble world. It was almost as if he had unknowingly produced a great fractal of sounds: individual pieces swirled, repeated, grew in vibrancy and delight. At first glance it seemed nothing more than disorganized noise; but together, it created a fantastic symphony; all just for him.)

He grinned and allowed his power to flourish, roiling forth in black waves to the beat of the city's terror-stricken heart. He parasitically took the life of a few people too slow to get themselves out of the way of his malignant arc of power, but he himself never noticed their untimely demise. This was _it_; this was the meaning of pure chaos! He enjoyed it, reveled in it, _ruled_ _it_...

But it wasn't what he _wanted_, and the acid rain that was his unhappiness fell onto his smile and curdled it bitter.

If only he could have done this so many hundreds of years ago. If only the power which coursed through his body now had been able to flow so freely then. If only he could have laid waste to a certain fledgling village, _then_ his life would have been much more satisfying, much more meaningful. It would have made for a worthwhile endeavor to crush Hashirama's spirit, seize control, and destroy everything in his path. For what was he accomplishing here? In this world so different from his own, a place he didn't understand, a time he did not belong to?

Annihilating Konoha had worth and value and meaning. But, unfortunately, he had no means of returning to what once was, and those dreams harbored in a thousand-year-old breast would never be able to flourish. He'd just have to make do with suffocating those desires and turn his attention instead to vexing his deceased rival through the complete and thorough destruction of this lesser, modern world.

Such a pity.

The puzzling aspect of it, however, was that Madara had risen to power several days ago, and had yet to spot even the most meager, insignificant, trifling signs of Hashirama's resistance. Ever since Madara had absorbed his lighter half and become a whole entity of malevolent and evil prowess, he had expected to encounter a challenge of righteousness (how dearly he was looking forward to finally, _finally_ exacting full revenge on Hashirama for leaving him cursed in that _hole_ for so long!), but had thus far remained disappointed.

Not one to remain thwarted for long, Madara had attempted to lure the spirit out of hiding by raising a little hell: trashing the city, murdering people at random, disrupting peaceful ways of life at large. And while the whole endeavor proved to be a rather twisted sort of _enjoyable _waste of time, it wasn't exactly accomplishing its goal.

The modern police could not challenge him. Combined armies could not hinder him. Helicopters, planes, bullets, cannons...all were proved ineffective. This world had forgotten the way of the Ninja: the sheer goliath of strength hidden within one's own self. Instead, these foolish souls blocked themselves from all access to magic, whether chakra or Art, and focused solely only upon the strength available to them via the power of their minds. (And while their technological and militaristic advances were admittedly rather impressive, compared to what a united Light and Dark spirit could do, well, they didn't stand much of a chance.)

Besides bearing vast stores of chakra, Uchiha Madara had at his command the very forces of Nature itself. The Arts, both White and Dark, were derived from the innermost strength of the turning Earth, the thrumming of ancient power held deep within its core. The source of all White Arts came from the combined universal chakras of all things living. It was naturally stronger than the Dark Arts, a force powered by the hidden chakras of all things dead or corrupted. The inequality between the forces had nothing to do with numbers: instead, it was created because of the wielder. A living being could harness living energy easier than a living being could harness dead energy. (Which ironically made the whole Hashirama-situation something of a paradox. See, Hashirama was quite dead, yet still managed to use living magic, whereas Madara was quite alive, and was a conqueror of the magic of death. Madara idly wondered if the inverted switch made possible in this modern world would put them on a crude base of equality? Would the White Arts no longer have an upper hand?)

However, the people in this day and age had long since forgotten how to craft magic in even its simplest of forms, let alone the arcane powers of the Arts. Madara wondered how a civilization could be so stupid as to throw away its most powerful weapons for cheap tricks held in fancy, explodable containers...?

With an irritated glance at yet another military aircraft circling the perimeter of the city, Madara decided to make it _work_ to find him; instead of blowing it out of the sky with a simple koton (gasoline tanks exploded rather well, he discovered), he slid into the side entrance of some mall and proceeded to pick his way around the chaos encased in its empty shell, knowing there was no method the Modern Ones had which could possibly trace him.

...

Every day, Uchiha Madara woke to the self-created symphony of pandemonium playing outside his window, relishing in the feel of godlike power as thousands of citizens tried desperately to flee. The military had yet to track him down, but, of course, they also had yet to devise a way to stop him in his tracks. Yawning, Madara was tempted to go back to sleep, but a persistent meowing from the foot of the bed proved too irritating to ignore. Barely cracking an eyelid in the persistent feline's direction, Madara willed a jutsu into being and sent it in the direction of the distraction. The cat exploded. Madara went back to sleep.

(Apparently some genjutsus were just as effective on animals as they were on humans; Madara didn't see Snuffles at all thereafter. Damn cat finally understood this man was _not_ his usual caretaker.)

Madara awoke several hours later, feeling refreshed, yet strangely chilled in his bones. It was not a pleasant feeling, nor was it one he wished to maintain. It was entirely too reminiscent of the lifeless aeons he had spent locked away in his cave of a tomb, crumbling bones held frozen and immobile, soul twisted and chained to a great abyss of nothingness. It was a peculiar feeling which crawled up and down his spine, almost nostalgic in its discomfort, and it caused his shoulders to tremble ever so slightly in an effort to shake off the thought and instead retain his natural warmth.

Glaring back at his tired-looking reflection from a window smothered with rain, Madara shuffled his way to the kitchen and pressed the brew button for a fresh pot of coffee. He grabbed something to eat, barely noticing what it was or from where, and sat in front of the blank television screen. He stared at its mirror-like surface, thinking about nothing, simply sitting: waiting. He felt another chill creep through the inside of his chest. Frowning, he executed a warming jutsu and settled back against the cushions of the dark-colored couch, waiting patiently for the coffee to finish brewing. Listening to the rain outside thrash against the windows, he again fell asleep, snoring lightly and dreaming of a great expanse of nothing.

...


	20. The Fox Returns?

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

...

Madara's lifeless corpse floated through a puzzling void, passing mounds of strange objects. Curious things had been acquired throughout the centuries, stored in this alternate dimension accessible only through the power of a fully awakened Mangekyou. Relics of a past long forgotten lay beside sleeping skeletons of individuals holding secrets within themselves, from odd-looking eyes to great magical tattoos or hidden abilities. Madara himself knew not what they were, as his body flew vacantly through this dark and twisted space. His soul was intertwining with his other half's, beginning a process of fusion which would end in his own destruction. Then again, he was rather unaware of the process and did nothing to fight against it.

On the other hand, having the body devoid of its own soul proved terribly convenient for the remains of one spirit quite dead. With no rightful competition to revive Madara's corpse, Tobirama had no problems acquiring the form for himself, possessing it in a suspended state between life and death (for Tobirama's spirit was already deceased, yet the body itself lived, thus making either state unattainable), and was pleased to find it responded to his commands.

He wasn't used to possessing a corporeal form, and therefore blundered his movements. But while he remained within the confines of the Mangekyou, no time passed for him in his struggles. He may have been there hours or years - adjusting, controlling, falling over and bonking his head against great blocks of granite - but mastering functionality over the body took literally no time at all. That much, at least, was a relief.

So, with the body finally under his control, Tobirama set about tapping on dead things to assure himself that's what they really were, assessed chakra storages left within said skeletons, and proceeded to filter through the types that were of a match to himself and the body he occupied. After filling his reserves and diminishing Madara's by at least a little, Tobirama deemed it time to finally get out of this inter-dimensional trap and out into the real world where he could do something useful.

...

Uchiha Madara's headache had disappeared after a long slumber; he felt completely refreshed upon awakening. He hadn't expected a greeting, however, and immediately flared his Sharingan to full power, _daring_ the intruder to make his move.

No Senju liked to act as a coward, though, and so the intruder took Madara up on his offer. "Good morning," Hashirama said pleasantly. "Lovely day."

Madara's eyes narrowed and he released his Mangekyou. He climbed from the bed, red eyes watchful, and languidly tied his sword belt over his night clothes. "The boy's already been absorbed," he said. "There's no point in trying to act as his guardian angel any longer."

Hashirama nodded. "But of course. It was only a matter of time." He remained where he was, leaning against the doorframe, watching Madara with a gaze which neither judged nor appraised. "I am but a spirit, Madara. There is not much once such as I can accomplish against a foe such as you."

"What do you want?" Madara asked, wondering why he hadn't been locked in another bout of mortal combat already. Hashirama had protected the boy for a reason...so why was he so calm about losing? It was impossible to separate both halves now; the boy had been completely absorbed weeks ago. "I have the strength to send you straight into the abyss, and you can do nothing to fight against me," he said, eyes narrowing.

Hashirama shrugged. "Do as you will. I merely wait."

Ah. There was still a plan and this wasn't over yet. Apparently Hashirama hadn't meant for a united Madara to escape unshackled, and he considered the boy an acceptable loss; he probably justified it as errant magic finally put back where it belonged. Madara readied himself for battle. "For what?" he asked, watching Hashirama closely.

"For you to notice _me_, you idiot," Tobirama growled from the other side of the room. "You're getting soft in your old age, missing _both _of us."

The taunt worked. Madara wasted no time sending smoldering bursts of Dark energy through the walls, leveling the house in a raging instant. Debris collapsed around them like rain, passing harmlessly through Hashirama's incorporeal form, bounding from Madara's own shield-like energy with tremendous force, and avoiding Tobirama completely as he mimicked the energy pulses channeled through Madara's main body. (The advantage, he had discovered, of inhabiting a satellite body was that it was able to directly link to its greater host's power. Anything Madara used could be used against him; anything attempted in a maneuver of trickery would instantly be detected by Tobirama. After all, they were literally one and the same like this. He was hoping Madara himself hadn't noticed yet.)

The dust hung thickly, clouding the three combatants, but Madara's eyes could pierce through the screen with ease. Tobirama feigned blindness and stumbled, tripping over larger fragments of concrete and metal. He kept low to the ground, using the terrain to his advantage by shielding his body from view. The last thing he needed was to be taken out by a well-placed fireball before this fight even _began_.

Unable to locate either Senju, Madara simply ignited the imploded mess. A raging inferno blazed instantly, climbing through the air, belching black smoke in thick masses. Fire crackled overhead, consuming flammable fog as eagerly as it consumed Madara's chakra, growing hotter and larger as it fed. Tobirama rolled beneath a shelter of thick concrete to escape the heart of the flames, but he knew he would boil alive if he stayed. He needed to come up with a counter jutsu - _fast_. Good thing his speciality was water.

Cautiously, Tobirama risked a glance at the field, trying to assess the situation. His Sharingan-enhanced eyes pierced through the worst of the smoke, scouring the field for any sign of Madara. After missing him on the first hasty pass, Tobirama tried again, tried not to think about the heat, and suddenly a chakra-filled flash caught his eye. He focused in on it.

It wasn't Madara. Nor was it as far away from him as he would have hoped. Before him stared a giant, unblinking eye, completely focused on Tobirama's blood-drained face. A large demon, orange-hot and snarling.

_I thought you were sealed, you giant son of a bitch._

The Fox bit down, consuming Tobirama's world in a raging whirlwind of hate.

...

Madara felt no satisfaction, no triumph, as he watched his Fox devour his own lesser body. It may have held extraordinary abilities, but it ultimately drew power from himself, unable to awaken on its own. If the connection between them was severed (and indeed, he made certain it was) then the lesser body would become die, becoming soulless and empty once more. It would expel Tobirama as it burned, forcing him out of this world. Tobirama would then return to the afterlife for good, with no way to escape death twice.

With this, at least one Senju was finally out of Madara's way. Now to concentrate on the other.

As it was, Madara's Mangekyou Sharingan trumped any of Hashirama's battlefield tricks, spells, or conjurings. While it was true that Madara no longer had his Kyuubi, he did still control a large amount of its power, and those bestial stores would help him keep the edge in this fight. Even without his ferocious Bijuu by his side he still had the upper hand; he'd always been the stronger combatant. It was only a matter of time before Hashirama was either forced to retreat or finally face his demise.

Madara sighed. The days of their friendship were long dissolved, and only broken memories remained. But the respect still lingered, and because of it, he'd make certain this fight was one to remember. He would give it his all, holding nothing back, because Hashirama deserved at least that much for his troubles and for delivering Madara his final revenge against Konoha. Hashirama could then move on in peace while Madara lived his life as a new man, no longer shackled to the bitterness of his past.

With that decided, he whirled low to the ground and parried just as Hashirama's sword came crashing upon his head, their two blades locked edge upon edge. The vibrations caused Madara's hand to feel numb, but it was Hashirama's blade that slipped first. Madara's Sharingan read his opponent's movements, so at the moment when Hashirama prepared to spring back and regroup, Madara pressed his advantage forward, sliding their blades to catch again at the guards. Hashirama frowned, forced to step backwards on the uneven terrain, and braced himself against Madara's strength.

Hashirama used his opponent's shifted weight against him, moving just enough to the side to throw Madara off balance. With a lesser opponent, the strategy probably would have worked. Madara, however, had been expecting it. He used the opening to swing at Hashirama's head, releasing the blade and letting it fly as fast as it would go. Madara used the rest of his forward momentum to turn his fall into a somersault. He leaped to his feet with daggers drawn, forgoing the use of his traditional kunai until he was forced to lose these newer weapons, as well. (People didn't make Ninja weapons anymore, he had been disappointed to learn. At least, not the highly durable chakra-enforced ones he was used to using. Relying on normal blades was distasteful to him, but he'd rather have a substandard blade than none at all.)

Predictably, Hashirama dodged the assault and the blade was lost in the fiery whirlwind behind them. The image of the Great Fox wavered briefly as the steel passed through its muzzle, just beneath the giant's right eye. A terrible scream poured out of the gaping hole, echoing off the nothingness, reverberating thickly through chakra-laden air. It choked off immediately when the Fox's "wound" closed.

Hashirama paled and nearly dropped his weapon. He turned his attention to the Fox - no, to his _brother trapped inside the Fox _- and that was the moment in which Madara struck, wrapping his arms around Hashirama from behind, plunging both blades deep beneath his ribcage, angling sharply up into his chest cavity. Making absolutely certain he injured the ghost, Madara pumped both blades full of Dark Magic and held them there, feeling the deadly power drain unhindered from within him to the heart of his victim.

He was satisfied when he felt oozing warmth cover his hands, trickling wetly down both wrists and staining his sleeves, but he didn't release his still-continuing shove until the blades could go no farther and Hashirama sank to his knees, eyes wide and glassy, face devoid of color.

"It didn't have to be this way," Madara said gently, the raging storm of perpetual anger within him finally dissolving with the defeat of his greatest rival. "I wish you rest in a peaceful eternity."

Hashirama's eyes searched his own, confused, but still lucid. "I..." he choked, blood seeping from his mouth. "I..."

Madara bent beside Hashirama and sighed, brushing sweat-stuck hair from the dying man's forehead. "This wasn't in your plans," he said, voicing thoughts as they flickered from behind chocolate-hued eyes. "Tobirama should have been able to dispel the jutsu from inside the Fox's mouth. That's what you figured, wasn't it? So long as you distracted me enough to weaken it, he should have been able to unravel it."

Madara turned to regard his fiery creation before snapping his fingers. He watched the massive beast dissolve in a quiet instant of wispy-grey smoke. A body thudded to the ground, charred and unrecognizable, skewered by the sword he had thrown. The Mangekyou was able to perceive a shimmering form as it escaped the corpse. Left without power and without a soul, the entire body dissolved in a heap of flaking ash.

"It should have worked. And it would have, had that body known _how_ to manifest its own power in the real world. But this era doesn't trust in the ancient ways...he was closed off to the flow of chakra."

Madara closed his eyes and leaned back, preferring to let his mind blank completely. He tuned out the sounds of the world around him, focusing instead on the rhythm of his own breathing. He'd already watched Hashirama die once before; he had no desire to experience it again. So, with a bone-deep weariness, he meditated himself into slumber, ambitions fulfilled, victory complete.

At his feet, Hashirama choked on frothy blood. Twin daggers remained impaled deep within his body, but his eyes followed the retreating spirit of his brother. He focused as best as he was able, his eyes closing of their own accord as his strength left him, leaving behind only a whispered word upon grief-parted lips.

...


	21. Armageddon

Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

...

"Release," Hashirama whispered, blood seeping past his lips. It bubbled down his chin, coated his body in deep stains, soaked across the plaster slab beneath. But with that one word, the whole earth shifted.

Madara's slumbering eyes flared open, sun-red and angry. "Impossible," he hissed, matchless fury reignited. "Impossible."

Hashirama gave a small, apologetic smile. Madara couldn't handle the sight, maddened beyond limits by the pity he perceived as patronization. He grabbed twin kunai from his belt and slammed them down.

The moment Madara howled his rage, Hashirama's feeble hold on his own life slipped. He was dead before the kunai bit, embedding themselves deeply within his skull, Madara's violence gouging out pitying orbs.

With Hashirama's soul unraveled from its body, there were no longer sufficient restraints to hold back the great welling of power released by his whispered word, blocked only by his enormous will. (_The Will of Fire, they called it, in a time long past. A force built of compassion and determination, the mark of a rightful Hokage; something Madara had yearned for. Something he could never achieve._) This was it: their final move. The one Tobirama had given his life for, providing Hashirama with enough of an opening to complete his hand-seals - the one to finish the timeless battle between heart and hate. (_But none were left to hope for its success, for none knew of the legend's origins; those who had were once again laid to rest in battle-hewn graves._)

Madara could feel the earth tremble, vibrations singing through the metal still grasped in his hands, racing through his body and back down into the earth. He released his hold and stood, searching for the source of the power, feeling the air around him crackle as if it were charged. It pressed against his flesh, pervaded his very bones. He recognized the feel before it manifested its awakening, terrible and beautiful, completely unstoppable.

_The White Shock._

The earth rolled and oscillated beneath his feet; ritual letterings blazed upon his skin, burning and disappearing in the space of a blink. Waves pulsed outward, reversed their course, and sank indefinitely. The battlefield was drawn into a sucking hole, inescapable and catastrophic.

Madara's scream was swallowed the instant his world erased itself from existence.

...

Madara found himself, once again, bound in the void of death-sleep. To his surprise, he remained fully conscious. As well as unbound. Floating aimlessly, he tested the restrictions on his power, noting how the very air ate chakra from his flesh, drawing it out and leaving him empty. He was nothing more than a regular man, now.

"Nice of you to show up," Tobirama grumbled, impatiently flicking dirt from beneath his fingernails.

"I thought you needed a sacrifice for this to work," Madara mulled, searching for signs of the other Senju brother in the event they attempted an ambush. He noted wryly that it would be difficult to do so, in such a wasted space as this.

Tobirama sighed and gazed at a random point in the distance. "That's why you aren't properly bound."

"You managed to bring me here, all the same."

Tobirama frowned. "My brother still counts as the sacrifice, apparently. But because he was already a spirit, well..." he gestured toward Madara. "You get the idea. No proper sacrifice, no proper seal. Besides, why would we try to use the same trick when it didn't hold you the first time?"

Madara laughed. "Because you're imbeciles. You have no real plan." He twirled about, noting with satisfaction that he encountered resistance; he could still control his movements. That meant he still had flesh - he wasn't a ghost like the other two. "You didn't even kill me. This is still a living body."

"Because we needed a _better_ _sacrifice_," Tobirama said, smugness gliding across his features. "A dead one won't hold you."

"You bluff. You cannot use me as a sacrifice to seal _myself_."

"That would be why Hashirama's Shock is different from mine."

"What are you gibbering about?"

"It only resounds with those who have already experienced the power of a White Wall."

"Convenient of you to find a way to leave the civilians alone," Madara drawled. "Typical Senju cowardice."

Tobirama ignored him. "As I was saying, _you're_ the only one around here qualified to be a living sacrifice."

"You're forgetting that I am now complete. I have mastery over both White and Dark magics. Your Wall, your Shock, your other petty little tricks have no hold over me."

"Then let's see you get yourself out," Tobirama challenged.

Madara glowered, but stood his ground. His power had drained, it was true; the nature of this dimension caused it to continually feed upon his chakra to sustain itself. But that didn't mean he couldn't use his magic. Breathing deeply, Madara opened his mind and cast an Art, a terrible, dark wave of destruction destined to obliterate the world surrounding him and force its way back to the solid planes of reality. He would create a portal and set himself free.

The Art fizzled and died.

"What have you done?" he asked, glowering.

"Did I forget to mention that?" Tobirama replied with no small amount of venom. "No, I don't think I did. Maybe _you_ forgot to _listen_. Only those who have experienced the power of a White Wall are trapped here." He enunciated slowly.

"Meaning WHAT?" Madara demanded, impatient and irate.

"Meaning you're missing your Light half."

Madara snarled. It was true: the White Wall's original unleashing was the method of splitting his body into separate halves in the first place; therefore, the Light half did not exist at the time the Wall was first cast. But his separated Dark half _had_ been subjected to the Shock, and from Madara's intensive studies, as well as unfortunate experiences, had had learned quite well that the two jutsus went together, their energies twisting and combining in a single target, no matter how far the actual executions were laid forth.

The Light half had escaped the assimilation process simply because it hadn't been subjected to the White Shock. White magic had the peculiar ability to cancel Dark, if used under the correct circumstances, and apparently, this experience was proof of the theory.

"Congratulations," Madara drawled. "You saved the boy."

Tobirama took a sweeping bow.

"But you have yet to defeat me."

"I'm well aware of our current impasse, Madara," Tobirama said. "Ninjutsu and genjutsu are out because they rely on chakra, and as you can tell, that goes directly toward sustaining this dimension. Taijutsu won't do you any good because you're solid and I'm a ghost. But you are welcome to try."

Madara refused to take the bait. "So we spend an eternity staring each other down, flinging insults, trying our best to destroy the other with boredom?"

"We could try sealing you again."

"You just told me we were at an impasse." Madara chuckled. "_Sealing_ me means there is a way to break the balance."

"There is," Hashirama confirmed, materializing beside his brother.

"Of course there is," Madara said. "Otherwise you wouldn't have gone through the trouble of wasting my time on this nonsensical adventure."

"Remember your soul-stealing blob?" Tobirama asked. "We found a White version."

Madara did not comment. Possibly because he didn't deem it worth the effort, but more probably because he had just met it.

...

_The space was endless. He was quickly growing tired of this hocus-pocus, tired of floating around a giant soup bowl of nothing. Something had happened to him, but he wasn't sure what. All he could see were stars. _

"_Time to set you free," a single voice rang like a choir, resounding and rebounding, crashing in a wave of noise. The stars twinkled and went out._

_Madara's Light half awoke._

_..._

He was somewhere. He wasn't sure where, but at least his feet were on solid ground and his lungs were filled with air. Debris was strewn around him as if he had landed in the center of an apocalypse, as if he had unknowingly been its catalyst. There were fires and sirens and a strange haze to the air, but somehow, through the mess of it, he was happy to be free of the floating.

He coughed and tried to dislodge the smoke from his throat.

Stumbling over concrete and metal, Madara made his way down a street otherwise vacant. Recognizing it as his own, he turned back and blinked the rest of the world into focus.

His senses were sluggish and dull.

He realized the epicenter of the local devastation was his very own house. He wasn't terribly surprised.

Sighing, Madara sat on the curbside and wondered what he was supposed to do next. Part of him felt as if he should be angry, but another part, a newer part, felt...lighter. As if everything would be okay. He had no house, but it would be okay. The worst was over. Finally over.

His quest was complete.

He picked himself up, brushed off his jeans, and started walking.

...

After that, things returned to normal. Madara's house was rebuilt; Snuffles returned; nothing else exploded; and while the city was under construction, it was recovering nicely. No one could explain what had happened to cause such widespread devastation, but theories abounded: from the natural to the paranormal, scholars from every field imaginable attempted to come up with The Cause. (So far, nothing worked truly well, but at least people felt better when the scientists and analysts and mathematicians were trying.)

Like the rest of the world, Madara had no memory of what had transpired in his hometown. The world didn't understand the concept of magical Arts, and had no basis for fathoming the nature of Jutsu. The Way of the Ninja was a thing of the past; forgotten and lost in the depths and folds of time. There was no framework for such things in an era of science and innovation, nothing for the present to hold onto when it came to understanding something as immaterial as the ghosts of the past.

Hashirama and Tobirama were finally free, released from their cursed, immortal prisons. Madara's dark soul was purified in its second sealing, and as such, could no longer remain sealed. It too passed on, out of this world, and into the Great Beyond. Judgement would await these three souls caught in the crossfire of time and space, but there would be no returning to earth. The last warriors of a forgotten age had finally been laid to rest.

Madara returned to his job with a strangely transformed countenance, perpetual scowls replaced by the barest glimmerings of other emotions. Inexplicable anger and rage no longer consumed him, no longer ruled his inner thoughts. And while he didn't exactly come across as the most joyful person, at least he came out a little less explosive. He didn't understand why. He didn't know how. But, if only a little, the unfathomable burdens from deep within his heart were lifted enough for him to see there was something else out there beyond a world of hate - a new path in life where, if he didn't give up, true freedom would await.

So it was with a smile that he sold a pretty brunette a bundle of gift cards and watched her bounce out of the store with an off-tune song on her lips. Gazing at her from the window, his eyes glazed over and love-struck, he sighed with his chin in his hand (his coworkers stopped to openly gape). With a sudden start, Madara watched the girl climb into a convertible and kiss some well-muscled dude full on the lips.

It may have been true that Madara's rage had become tempered, more under control; however, it also appeared as if the same rules didn't quite apply for his fiery language. (Grinning, his coworkers breathed a collective sigh of relief and returned to their work. Good ol' Madara was back.)


End file.
